Nerves
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: During the war nerves run high, and eventually break. When two nerves break together, it can have more serious consequences. Clarkson/Isobel fic set in/after S2Ep3.
1. Chapter 1

**This is set just after the end of Series 2 Episode 3 when Isobel and Cora have been having their scrap over who is going to be in charge of the convalescent home. I wrote it because I think we often over-romaticise Richard and Isobel (not that that's a terrible thing) and because of that we often miss quite a lot of the antagonism that can exist between them at times. Saying that, I really really hope this is in character. **

By God, she had been getting to him lately, he reflected a long time afterwards as they lay haphazardly entangled in each others bodies and the thin whiteness of the bedsheets, the skin of her sleeping chest touching and leaving his with the deep and gentle breaths she took. It was a trying time. At moments he had hated her, and her domineering, demanding, busybody, insufferable, oblivious ways. His face lay pressed into her hair- undone and wild- with the top of her head just gracing his chin, contacting comfortably. At moments he had been awed by her, and the glimmering kindness she always showed to the officers despite how busy she was; how she cared for them unquestioningly even when she had so many cares of her own. He had to admit that in those moments he loved her, he loved her beyond question. Even in sleep her arms wrapped securely around his bare body, her forearms lying up and down his back, her hands resting under his shoulders, holding him to her. Other moments when he would catch sight of her alluring figure in her slim, black nurse's dress; when he would see her turn her head sharply and smile; when she walked with her capable sway. Moments when, in his increasingly worn state, he could almost hear her call out to him. When he loved her beyond question.

That was, he concluded, the best way of describing how they had ended up here; lying closely beside each other in order to be able to fit into the narrow bed in the corner of his office; where, increasingly, he spent his evenings when he couldn't be spared to go home. Usually it was the patients who could not spare him, this time it had been her, and only her.

It was understandable, he thought, even at their ages, that this should happen. They were both under a lot of pressure and their nerves had been running sky high for weeks. That was partly due to each other, he conceded. There were times when she certainly didn't make it any easier for him, he reflected ruefully, like all of this absurd nonsense with Lady Grantham over who would be in charge of the convalescent home. It was perfectly understandable, maybe even natural, that they should fall- or throw themselves- into each others arms one warm evening in his office. Maybe it wasn't exactly right, he knew, he realised now that he should have taken his time a little bit more with her, but it had been completely natural.

He hadn't been in the best of moods when he had walked into his office anyway, having had a day that was awful in every way in could manage to be, but to find her there, hands on her hips, obviously waiting for a confrontation had almost caused him to snap right there and then. Isobel Crawley was the person he relied upon for the comfort, the friendship, that she and only she knew how to extend to him. When she chose to. When she didn't he found her almost unbearable, especially when he needed it like he did now.

Isobel, however, was apparently oblivious to his mood, and launched straight in to what she had obviously been planning to say for some time.

"How is Lady Grantham, then?" she asked, her eyes dangerous, one hand resting authoritatively on the top of his desk, her false air of nonchalance not fooling him for a moment . Obviously she knew where he had come from, but was disinclined to allow him any sympathy in view of that, "Is her Majesty having an easy rule over her precious convalescent castle?"

If any of his other nurses dared to speak to him like that, he'd have her out of his hospital before she knew what had hit her. Her eyes were wide, waiting for an answer. 

"Mrs Crawley-..." he began wearily.

She cut him off. For some reason, she was furious with him. He sensed that he was shortly to be enlightened as to the reason, and braced himself, pretending that anger didn't bring out the physical beauty of her even more.

"You know, Major Clarkson," she returned his title icily, with the definite air of a woman who'd long had a bone to pick, "It might have been nice to think that a shred of the hard work, of the countless temperatures I've taken, of the hands I've held over the past three years, or during the four before that when I've worked with you, has been valued. Up until now, I had allowed myself to think that it had, but obviously I have been very foolish. Obviously," she continued, her voice steely, her stare deadly, "Because I am not a Countess, that automatically decreases the worth of all these years' working together."

Oh God, she was back on to this, but much more vehemently so that she had ever been before. It was extremely difficult not to roll his eyes. Instead, he took of his hat, lying it on the edge of his desk, and throwing his gloves into it a moment later. For a moment he contemplated asking her if she'd had as difficult a day as he had to cause her to go on like this.

She was still watching him, waiting for a response. He did not have one that was not anger to match her own or utter capitulation, and he did not know which one to give. He remained silent.

"I'm not one to complain, Major Clarkson," she told him bluntly, "But I'm afraid I can no longer remain silent. I feel bound to speak. Lady Grantham has gone too far in her petty vendetta against me in order to make someone else suffer for the loss of her precious house, and I am astonished that you, of all people, should humour her."

"Lady Grantham knows that house," he replied, trying to keep the terseness out of his tone. The very last thing he needed at the moment was for her to shout at him.

"Which hardly compensates for the bare minimum she knows about medical care!" Mrs Crawley, declared triumphantly, eyes flashing, "Major Clarkson, do you have any idea how it feels to think that you rank me less capable than her?"

"Both you and Lady Grantham are in equal charge of the convalescent home," he reminded her.

"Despite the fact that Lady Grantham know next to nothing about medicine!" she repeated, as if he had just confirmed her point.

"Really, Mrs Crawley, don't you think you are over-reacting just a little bit?"

It was the wrong thing to say, evidently.

"I don't know how else I'm supposed to react," she replied finally. He thought he heard a tremor in her voice, but her face betrayed nothing expect the anger she'd shown in the past few minutes. "Dr. Clarkson," she spoke much more softly and her slip up with his title did not escape him, "I had thought, before the war, that we had a good working relationship. I thought you valued me almost as an equal. Either I was entirely wrong, or your opinion of me has somehow changed since then."

Oh, he remembered how she'd been before the war. She had certainly changed over the past few years, there was no denying it- though he imagined she'd probably say exactly the same of him. She had looked less tired by far, and she had worn such bright and beautiful clothes. And he _had _valued her as an equal, as a confidante, a shoulder to lean on. He still did. But she could be _so _insufferable at times like this, and before he knew it, he was angry, properly angry with her.

"Mrs Crawley," his tone matched hers in severity now, really, he thought, a good telling off might do her the world of good, "It might have escaped your attention, but I took considerable time in deciding who would be in charge of the convalescent home. I chose _both_ you and Lady Grantham because I value the different skills you each have. And while we're on the subject, I really do think that you should show a little more respect for your cousin," he added in a his, controlling only his volume, "Really, your contempt for her is almost beyond belief at times, it's vulgar not to mention childish and petty. And I don't think you should be so dismissive of her sacrificing her house for our cause. Especially as she's all but given up her youngest daughter. Perhaps if you made a similar sacrifice, you would be a little more understanding."

He realised too late. The was possibly the stupidest thing he'd said in his entire life. Her face had been shocked enough at the way he had suddenly turned on her, but when he uttered that last sentence, her expression seemed to dissolve altogether into one of utter horror and sadness. He moved his mouth to apologise, but not sound came out.

Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her, but for the fact that she spoke crystal clearly.

"I've given up my son."

Her only son. All she had.

Her arms were no longer bared assertively, propped up by her hips, but folded tightly across her chest, failing to restrain her distressed and shallow breathing. He had really done it now.

She was so beautiful when she was angry. She frightened him and aroused him at the same time. The glint in her eye, the flush of her neck. He needed her and feared her at the same time.

"My son," she repeated, almost helplessly with conflicting sadness and fury.

He had no idea what to say to her.

"Isobel-..."

"Don't."

"I didn't mean to-..."

"But you did anyway."

He took a step closer, determined not to let her intimidate him away.

"I sorry," he told her, "I shouldn't have-..."

"No, you shouldn't."

"ISOBEL!" he roared, "Will you let me finish?"

There was a deafening silence for several seconds. Her lips pursed in a wordless reprimand for his further brash behaviour. Then everything snapped, and he was suddenly next to her and had her in his arms, body pressed flat against his. After a moment's surprise her felt her arms around his neck, her lips responding to him as he kissed her passionately, insistently devouring her mouth, demanding access.

Lost in the hot, delicious feeling of her lips on his he backed them towards the bed at the side of the room. She issued no complaints, in fact she sank down onto the mattress almost gratefully, as if her knees needed the extra support. He wound his hands into her hair, knocking it down so loose curls spilled down onto her shoulders, bowing his head to kiss her neck. Without him noticing, her hands has already unfastened the buttons of his jacket, and she pushed it gently off his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor. Her fingers, fumbling slightly, only just succeeded in ridding him of his tie, before he pressed her backwards into the pillows, bearing down over her.

He loved her, he remembered as he deftly slipped the buttons of her dress open to reveal the white expanse of her skin, he loved this beautiful, frustrating woman. He hadn't allowed himself to remember for a long while now, but now that he did the feeling returned just as strongly as it had ever existed. It filled him with awe to hear the unrestrained moan she let out as he caressed the curve of her breast above her corset, but he did not linger; blinkered by desire, he knew he could not restraint himself for very long. Ridding her of her dress, he made quick work of his own shirt, throwing it onto the floor with his jacket, moving back to kneel over her. He gasped as he felt her hands leave his unfastened belt and deal with the fastenings of his trousers.

Bowing back down to kiss her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her breasts before slipping her out of her corset, he illicited some more of the most blissful moans from her, before she took advantage of his momentary distraction with how best to get her out of her slip to take the lobe of his ear gently between her swollen and wantonly parted lips.

"Isobel!" he gasped into her breasts, the first time he'd uttered her name since he'd bellowed it at her.

Running his hands quickly up her parted legs, he lifted her slip, brushing his fingers along the inside of her thighs to find her wet and exquisitely ready for him. Groaning, he felt her hips roll demandingly against his hand. He almost, almost, gave into temptation and thrust deep inside her at that moment, but his desire to possess all of her, to have her breasts in his hands, to feel her whole body against his as she came overpowered it. Helping her to lift her hips from the bed, he whisked the slip over her head and off to revel in the sight of her nakedness. And then he gave in, slipping his shorts down and taking her in one swift motion, thrusting into her hard and insistently, pushing into her and withdrawing repeatedly for the short time that it took for them both to reach a blinding climax. Utterly possessing her so thoroughly that she forgot where they were and that they could be easily overheard and cried out at the height of her rapture.

It was everything he had imagined, everything he'd ever known, and so much more.

They felt back against the bedsheets gasping, exhausted and physically sated. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other, all semblance of their anger forgotten, all having been channelled into the consuming passion between them, and now was only the intimacy, the need for comfort that he had craved beforehand. They clung to each other tightly, protectively, as they slipped into sleep.

This was so much more than lust, he reflected now, lying awake, still feeling the closeness and the instinctive protection of their bodies tangled together. Lust didn't know how to be like this. He knew he loved her. What on earth she would think of that when she woke up he would just have to wait and see.

**What do you think? Please review if you have the time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm really enjoying writing this. There is no antagonism in this chapter, just romanticising- that's probably why I enjoyed it so much. Thank you for all of you reviews so far. **

When she woke up, she looked bemused, surprised- he reminded himself quickly that he had expected that- and frowned a little; looking around, trying to work out where on earth she was, and remember what had happened to cause her to end up here. He watched her face carefully for any signs of distress, fear, regret, disgust, or anything like it, but there were none; only sleepy-eyed confusion for a few more moments that seemed very long indeed to him. Then she realised, and paused for a second. Then she let her head relax and fall back down a little, and turned her face to plant a single kiss on his bare shoulder. He felt jubilant relief sore inside of him, and tightened his arms around her instinctively to bring her closer to him. She let out a quiet but contented hum. They needed to talk, they quite seriously needed to talk to each other, but just for the moment he was happy for them to be silent, and to simply bask in the feeling of his body beside hers.

After a while, though, with the light of the slowly dawning sun starting to inch its way down the wall above them, she let out a quiet but clear laugh. Not a mocking laugh, he liked to think that it was a joyful one, but nevertheless he remarked, with a slight acknowledgement of teasing in his voice:

"Most men would take that quite unflatteringly, you know."

She rolled over onto her side to watch him.

"And are you the same as most men?" she asked testily, her eye glinting a little.

It was extraordinary, it was surreal. It was almost like they'd always been lovers. It gave him a slight thrill of happiness to think of it in that way: he was her lover now and she was his. And if what she said now, if the look on her face was anything to go by, it seemed very much as if they might stay that way. It was all he could do not to lean forward and steal another kiss from her lips, parted slightly in absent-mindedness as she concentrated on his face.

"I have no idea," he replied smartly, "It should really be me asking you that."

A flush seemed to creep into her cheek a little bit, but she barely faltered.

"Well, you're like no other man I've ever met," she told him quietly, lifting her arms to wrap them almost shyly around his neck, telling him silently to take it as a compliment, watching his throat intently.

It was only half-awake love-talk, sweet nothings whispered over a pillow in the early morning but it still somehow meant the world to him. She was so beautiful to him in those moments: more than the ravishing, enticing beauty that had broken him down last night, now she appeared utterly transcendent. He suspected that it had been a long time since she'd had a lover before him, and he felt immensely pleased that it was only him who was able to see her like this. He leant forward and planted a soft kiss into her hairline, nuzzling into her forehead for a second before drawing back to say what a half of him dreaded having to say.

"Isobel, we need to talk."

"I know we do," she replied a little ruefully.

He raised his hand to her cheek, tenderly brushing his thumb along the edge of the lines around her eyes that deepened when she smiled. She still looked tired, it was true, but it was a happy tired, a satisfied tired. He got carried away with watching her, and it was her who had to press the conversation on.

"Do you want to talk now?" she asked, "There's a little bit of time before we need to get up."

"If you've no objection."

"What do you want to say to me, Richard?"

So many things, he thought. The problem was where to start.

"Isobel," he murmured almost reverently, brushing his hand slowly over her loose hair- he couldn't at that moment stop touching her- he felt himself staring at her, transfixed, "I don't know how t-..."

She stopped him having to try by leaning in and kissing him soundly on the lips. Groaning, he pressed the back of her hair softly back towards him, pressing his tongue briefly into her mouth to explore her slowly.

"We're supposed to be talking," she remarked with a smug little smile when they finally broke apart.

He sighed heavily.

"Don't distract me like that, then," he pretended to reprimanded her.

She looked suddenly serious, evidently deciding that she was going to have to drive the conversation if they were to get anywhere.

"Did you mean what you said last night?" she asked with such gravity that he could have no doubt about which part she meant.

"No," he answered in a heartbeat, "Not a word of it. How could I possibly?What I said wasn't even true, for a start. I said it in frustration, in anger, and I am truly sorry, Isobel. You have no idea how I felt when I realised."

Her hand rested securely on his shoulder.

"I forgive you, Richard. And I'm sorry I made you so angry in the first place. It was wrong of me, I shouldn't have been so selfish."

You weren't, he thought. Or at least if you were _then_, you certainly made up for it during the course of the night.

He paused for a second. They had spoken about what they'd said, but not about the perhaps more significant matter of what they'd done. It was ludicrous, really; here he was lying naked beside her and he couldn't bring himself to even mention the fact they'd made love, much less discuss it.

The light of the dawn was creeping further and further down the wall. He needed to say something soon; he couldn't possibly let her leave this bed without making clear to her that his intentions last night had been noble. At least in theory. He had to let her know that she wasn't one of a few, she was the only one; she was all he wanted and all he felt he needed now. He had to let her know that it hadn't just been meaningless intercourse, he had made love to her because he cared for her, and because he loved her. But how on earth was he going to say that? The need he had to tell her was opposed by a fear, a terror he had of her scorning him, or pitying him, or worst of all being completely indifferent. But then again, hadn't she wanted him last night as much as he had wanted her? It had certainly seemed so. It was best not to think of that now, though, if he ever wanted to make it out of this bed. He inhaled deeply.

"Richard, what's wrong?"

He had had his eyes closed too, without realising it, and he opened them to find her eyes full of concern, and her hand resting gently on his forearm, trying to soothe him.

"I love you, Isobel."

She blinked quickly and heavily, her frown lifting a little into an expression of complete surprise for a moment.

"Is there anything wrong in that?" she asked quietly once she'd collected herself a little.

"Nothing at all," he assured her quickly, realising how his answer must have sounded, "Only when you take into account how I've treated you recently... and how I acted last night."

One of her hands remained on his arm, the other rested comfortingly at the base of his neck.

"Richard, I can't think of any gesture more fitting to love than what you gave me last night. You gave me exactly what I needed; a good telling off and... physical release. And the comfort of going to sleep beside another person, being entirely theirs. I had forgotten..." 

"I wasn't very... courteous, or gentlemanly," he protested, "You deserve bet-..."

"I promise you, if you'd been any more courteous or gentlemanly you'd have had my serious complaints," she told him with a small smile, "You were gentle with me, Richard, and that's all I can possibly ask of you."

He kissed her again quickly.

"Thank you," he told her sincerely.

"Not at all. Richard?"

"Yes?"

"How long have you loved me for?"

He was quiet for a second.

"I'm only wondering why you didn't tell me sooner."

He considered for a moment.

"Before the war there was so little urgency," he concluded slowly, "Silly at sounds, it seemed that things would always stay exactly as they were. And you were always there, you were always gentle, and you were always kind, and so very beautiful, but I could never find the moment when it seemed right to tell you, and there seemed to be so little rush. And then, well, the war."

"And you fell out of love with me, the irritating wench I became."

"Never. Granted, there were moments when it was harder to love you, I don't deny it. But I never stopped. You're still as kind and still as beautiful."

She blushed a little at the compliment, falling silent for a few moments.

"Thank you for being so truthful, Richard."

"That's quite alright," he replied, "I feel it would be best if there were only ever truths between us from now on. Let's not hide anything from now on, even if it's not especially easy to say. What?" he asked, catching the look on your face, "Isobel, what's the matter?"

"I love you," she blurted out, her eyes a little wide, "There."

It stunned him only for a second, and then he kissed her, wrapping her still more tightly in his arms.

They were both considerably breathless when they broke apart, and both smiling.

"So," he asked, the smile on his face completely irremovable, apparently, "Does that mean you wouldn't be averse to spending a few more nights here, like this?"

She was quiet for a second, and for a horrible, illogical moment he thought she was going to say no.

"I'd rather," she began shyly, "That we went to _your_ bed, in your own house, or to mine, even, if we're careful of Molesley. If it's not too difficult."

"It might mean that we can't be together as often," he warned her, "But to be quite frank I'm wonderfully glad to have you at all, and if that's what you'd rather do then that's what will happen."

She smiled thoroughly, kissing him again.

"Richard, you can have me however and whenever you need me, but as often as possible, if we could make it home."

He clasped her hand in his larger one.

"Then that's what we'll do," he told her.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**I thought I'd let them- and us- have a chapter of unadulterated happiness as I'm planning to keep this compliant with Series 2.**

He was intensely grateful now that he had listened to her. Hers had been the best idea by far. They could by no means afford to meet at his house every night; they didn't even meet at the hospital every night, but that was more to do with the chances of someone discovering them, though she had once or twice hinted that it was a risk she was willing to take. But on those occasions when he heard the sound of the front door clicking quietly open, and hurried out into the hall to find her standing in her evening dress, having come straight down from dinner at the big house, hanging up her coat on the pegs beside his; it was worth every moment of the nights he had to spend alone. The sight of her looking so beautiful in rich green or cream or blue, and so happy to be near him was truly beyond value.

He moved forwards to meet her and kiss her. Her face was cold, as were her bare elbows, and he pressed her into his chest, rubbing her back gently to warm her up.

"I'm alright," she told him softly, knowing he was worrying about her.

"The nights are getting colder," he reminded her.

"Oh, don't I know it!" she replied ruefully, taking him by the hand and leading him further into the hall away from the door, "Cousin Cora can barely bring herself to speak a civil word to me. I'd say that I don't know why she still invites me for dinner at all, only that we were a very small number again. Are we going straight up?" she paused at the foot of the stairs.

"If you like."

She start to climb the stairs, lifting her dress a little so she didn't trip, as he switched off the oil light in the sitting room and the hall, following her a few moments later into his bedroom where she was taking off her jewellery, lying them out beside his cuff links and comb.

"So what was the topic of conversation tonight?" he asked as he unbuttoned his shirt- he had discarded his jacket a long time ago while was waiting for her. He asked that particular question because her tendency to be rather wry meant that she was usually highly amusing on the subject.

"Oh, well, we had a break from my deficiencies, and talked about Shakespeare," she replied.

"Really?" He had to admit that surprised him a little bit.

"Yes," she told him, standing up from the chair at the writing desk she'd been sitting at, "In fact we'd frequently tread that path or something similar before the war. It's such a shame; the girls used to get so worked up and enthused about things like that before- at least Sybil did-, now they all just drift aimlessly through the motions so that they've got something to say. In a way I wish they didn't bother."

She stood before him, her back to him as had become their custom so that he could help her out of her dress.

"You know if you want me as a full time lady's maid we're going to have to discuss my salary," he teased her as he encountered difficulty with some of the more resistant hooks.

"I was under the impression that you felt the benefit of it in other ways," she replied smoothly, looking back over her shoulder at him in some amusement, "Anyway, you'd be a rotten lady's maid as soon as it came to getting me into the clothes!"

He laughed as the catch came free and she was able to ease herself out of the garment altogether.

"Well, that's probably true," he conceded, taking off his trousers and getting into bed as she unfastened her corset, dropped it quickly on the floor and got in beside him, lying close beside him, snuggling gratefully into his side as he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and let the other drape around her waist, resting her forehead against his chin.

"Richard?" she asked thoughtfully after a while, "Which is _your _favourite play by Shakespeare?"

He chuckled.

"Guess," he told her.

She raised her eyebrow at him for a second in thought. Really, she realised a second later, it was too obvious.

"The Scottish Play," she reasoned.

He laughed again.

"Well, I'd give you full marks for logic, my darling," he told her kissing her forehead, "Which is yours?"

"Well, I'll tell you because you probably won't guess," she told him, "I always rather favoured _Othello_."

"Why?" he asked curiously.

"Oh, for intellectual reasons," she told him very casually, moving out of his arm to lie on her front, propping up her elbows to rest her chin on her fist and look down on him lying on his side, watching her, affording him a splendid view of her cleavage through the neck of her shift, "Though I suppose it makes me very middle class to say so."

She smiled her beautiful too-wide Isobel-smile and he knew she was joking.

"No, really," she told him, scoffing a little at her own feigned big-headedness, "I always did like Othello and Desdemona. They were so different and yet so right together, I always thought. And so in love. So much so that they both died for it in the end."

"_And when I love thee not, chaos is come again_," he quoted, taking her by surprise, not least by the way he looked at her, his eyes full of their own love and desire, when he said it. It made her heart skip a beat.

"I thought you said you liked _Macbeth_?" she asked him.

"I do, but it doesn't mean I can only go and see that one play," he reminded her softly, taking advantage of her momentary distraction to sit up, helping her to do so as well, wrapping his arm around her, and kissing her thoroughly, his other hand reaching into her loose hair as his mouth left hers to move slowly along her jaw.

He knew her so well by know, knew that as she tilted her head back slightly her eyes would flit closed and her mouth would spread into the smallest of blissful smiles. His hand left her hair to touch softly against her breast.

"What will you have tonight, my darling?" he asked her quietly, his mouth close to her ear.

"Just touch me, please, Richard," she begged him, her hand reaching timidly but impatiently to his, partially covering it and pressing it back into her breast.

He massaged her, kneading her breasts until she moaned, tracing the outline of her hardened nipples through her shift.

"Only here?" he asked in her ear.

Her head was thrown back in excitement, and he could not resist placing a single kiss at the base of her neck and feeling her shiver.

"More, Richard," she told him, "More." 

"How much more?"

"Richard, please don't tease me," a thin sheen of sweat had broken out across her forehead and she was breathing heavily, "Or do I have to show you?"

Approaching abandon as she seemed, she was obviously less far gone than he's thought. She still had her wits about her at any rate, enough to take him by surprise. Apart from their first time, he'd found her a relatively reticent lover; he'd have never thought she'd be bold enough to suggest... He groaned loudly at the thought.

"Oh, Isobel, please do."

Biting firmly on her lip in an attempt to control herself, she reached down slowly between her parted legs, raising her shift up over her thighs. Her fingers found the curls at her centre, pressing firmly upwards in a particular spot. Seeing the way her eyes widened, Richard reached forwards quickly to take over from her, slipping his fingers onto the same spot and pressing hard with his middle finger, while drawing her nub between his forefinger and thumb to massage her. The desperate whimper she let out as he eased her to lie down on the bed was music to his ears.

"Oh, Richard, Richard, I'm-..."

"Let go," he told her.

Her orgasm hit her with explosive force he could tell by the way that her whole body trembled violently in his arms and the cry she let out.

Lying beside her, stroking her arm, waiting for her to come back to him, he was fascinated by the absolute beauty of her face, still bearing signs of her abandon. He smiled at her softly as her eyes finally opened.

"Thank you, Richard." 

"You're very welcome, my love." 

"I think you're right you know," she told him slowly, moving closer to his lips, "If I want to keep you on a permanent basis , I think we'd better find some method method for repayment."

"You really are insatiable, aren't you?" he asked her, rather awed, as they finally broke apart from their kiss.

"Only when I'm with you," she told him, surprising him again by pulling him towards her to lie over her.

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	4. Chapter 4

He hoped that he'd heard her wrongly. He hoped that very much indeed.

"You're going to France?" he repeated slowly, checking that he hadn't in some way misunderstood her.

Isobel nodded her head firmly.

"Yes, Richard, you heard me rightly. I'm going to Paris."

There was a small pause of awful intensity, as he tried to work out which of the questions that teemed through his mind he should ask first.

"In God's name, why?" he wondered if she had heard the note of begging, of pleading in his voice. He wondered if he wanted her to.

At first he could quite believe it when she shrugged her shoulders, though it seemed that it was just her way of indicating that she was thinking.

"I must go somewhere where I can be useful," she finally replied, "I can't stay here feeling that I'm not; I realise that now. I've been made to see it." 

Suddenly, he thought he saw where this was going, and did not like it one bit.

"Oh no," he couldn't quite believe that she'd do this, not over some petty squabble with... "This is because of Lady Grantham, isn't it?"

"Cousin Cora has made it plain to me that she would be much happier if I were to offer my services elsewhere. And that is exactly what I intend to do."

He couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe it of her, but she had said it, more or less. The words had come straight from her mouth.

"So you're leaving just like that?" he questioned, almost furious with her, "You're just leaving over a petty little disagreement? What about me?"

She blinked hard.

"I'm sorry, Richard?" It wasn't an apology; she wanted him to explain himself. Right, then, he would certainly do that.

"What about me?" he asked her again, angrily.

"What _about _you?" she asked with a small laugh that did not quite reach her eyes, which was in fact bitter.

He was utterly struck dumb. He couldn't believe that she would need _this _explaining to her. He simply stared at her, unable to credit what he was hearing. She seemed, however, to catch on.

"Do you think that I should stay here because of you?" she asked, the incredulity in her voice tearing through him, "When thousands of men have been forced to leave their families to fight in this war?"

Well, yes, he rather did.

"You don't _have_ to go," he pointed out to her, "Nobody's forcing you."

"I have to feel useful," she repeated, "I have to feel like I'm doing _something_ to stop all of the horror, and the hurt. And," she continued, her dark brown eyes flashing dangerously, "If you think I'm content to stay at home knitting scarves for the troops so I can remain your mistress, well then, Richard, I'm afraid that you don't know me at all."

He did not know what on earth he could say to that little speech. She had completely taken him aback. What she had said horrified him. He felt humbled, selfish, angry with her at the same time as being completely in awe. But most of all, he felt sick to his stomach as the prospect slowly sunk in: he was losing her.

"But I love you," he told her stupidly.

"Oh, Richard," he wished she wouldn't look at him like that; so pityingly and yet reproachful as well, "I'm afraid that's not the point."

"You don't understand," he told her flatly, "I love you. Alright, I'll say it. I love you body and soul. Even when you're not there, you are the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing at night. The whole pattern of my life has changed since I've been with you, I only live from one meeting to the next. I don't think I can live without you. What more can I say to make you stay?"

"Nothing, Richard," she told him quietly.

"Do you want me to get rid of Lady Grantham?" he asked her wildly, "Remove her from her position at the hospital? Because I'll do it," he assured her, "In a heartbeat, if that's what it will take to keep you." 

He had moved closer to her, his hands reaching out for her, waiting for her to come back to him.

"Richard, there's nothing. I'm not asking your opinion, I'm telling you what I'm going to do. My mind's made up."

His hands dropped dismally.

"But," his voice was failing him, "But... I thought you meant it," he finished weakly, "I thought you loved me too. Or were you just being an obliging mistress?" he almost spat in out.

Her eyes flashed again, more violently this time, with the hurt.

"Don't talk about us like that," she told him sharply, "You know I love you. I'd never have slept with you otherwise, and you know it! I love you as much as you love me, if not more though I'm not brash enough to say it, and don't think for a second that it won't be the hardest thing in the world to leave you. But I have to go to France. It's the only way."

"Why?" he asked weakly.

"Oh, haven't you been listening to me, Richard?" she asked in frustration, "I cannot live with myself if I don't. I have to do this, it is my duty."

"To whom?"

"To myself, to my country, to my son. It's the right thing to do; confirmed by the fact that it's also hard," she looked about ready to weep, "It's so bloody hard."

He had never heard her use language like that before, he wouldn't have even expected her to know it. There was a silence.

"But what if you get hurt?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer to that, but asking it anyway.

"I'm going as a nurse not a soldier," she reminded him softly, the hint of a sad smile creeping into her face.

"But it has been known for.. . A shell goes too far, it only takes one, and... What if you don't come back?" he asked his voice failing him, and then he felt tears wetting his cheeks.

"Oh, Richard, Richard," she held the back of his head and whispered softly in his ear as he buried his face in her shoulder, ashamed of himself. Her other hand reached around his back to hold him to her, "Don't think of it. I'll be alright. Of course I'll be alright."

Finally, he straightened himself out, standing back up straight, but her hand did not leave his back, she made him stay close to her.

"I'm sorry," he told her, barely able to look her in the face, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... any of it. I shouldn't have said that to you."

"It doesn't matter," she told him softly. He could feel her giving him a beautiful smile that he did not deserve, "Richard, I understand why you said all of those things. I'd have probably said them myself if you were the one going. But I hope you can at least try to understand me."

He nodded haltingly, thinking that he might be able to, with time. She leant in quickly and kissed his lips.

"And it doesn't mean that I don't love you," she whispered, "Anything but. And when all of this is over we can be together properly," she told him, then added uncertainly, "If you still want me, that is. You do, don't you?"

"Oh, Isobel. More than you could know."

She smiled again, a little less sadly.

"Come on," she let go of him, turning to take their coats down from the peg, "We're going home. I want to be with you properly tonight."

**Please review if you have the time, I love to know what you think.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you so much for your reviews!**

She lay with her hand resting on his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and in the crook of his neck. They were both wide awake, it seemed that they were deferring the exhaustion that probably should have been engulfing both of them by now until later on. Time was far too precious. They had already made love once that night. His arm wrapped around her back, pressing her close to him, a futile attempt to keep her there. Their naked legs seemed, as usual, to have become entangled with each other. It was still the early hours of the morning- it couldn't have quite been three o'clock yet- but there was still light because they had kept two candles burning on the bedside tables next to Isobel's bed. Everything was so quiet and so still. It was difficult to believe that in a few hours there would be all of the activity of departure to be gone through.

It was the first time they'd slept at Crawley House; they had been wary of what might happen if Molesley or Mrs Bird happened to casually mention to someone that Dr. Clarkson had stayed the night but the guest bedroom hadn't been slept in, but now it had reached the point where they didn't care. She had to leave early in the morning, and as far as they were both concerned, they had to have this night together. Let tongues wag. Let shame and judgement come pouring down on their heads like poison. It would take no less than divine intervention to shift them from each others arms before morning.

"Will you be gone until the end of the war?" he had had plenty of time before now to ask her questions such as this, but he hadn't quite ever been able to face it or been able to find the right moment to. But now he had to know, and he had to ask her before it was too late.

"In all probability," she replied quietly, "But," she continued with a touch more optimism, "They're saying it won't be long now. Just one more push and one side will cave in, for better or for worse."

"I hope to God it's not ours," he told her flatly, "Not if you're going to be anywhere near the front lines."

"Even so," she tried to reassure him with a small smile, "Even if the other side does win, nothing would happen to me, I highly doubt that I can be taken prisoner. I'm going to work for the Red Cross, not the B. E. F."

He was quiet for a second, wondering how he could possibly make her understand the all-consuming worry he felt for her at the moment.

"I wish I was as brave as you are, Isobel," he told her.

She laughed softly and genuinely; he felt her chest shaking a little against his own.

"Thank you, Richard, but if it's that you're worried about I really wouldn't bother. I doubt the Germans would see the point in holding a silly old woman like me into custody."

"You're not an old woman," he told her, kissing her hair, "And that's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried about you in case you get hurt."

"And we've been through this before," she told him gently, "I'm not going to be at the front line, hardly anywhere near. As far as I'm aware, they've not dug trenches down the streets of Paris yet."

He was quiet.

"There's something else, isn't there?" she asked, "Something you don't want to tell me about. Come on," her forefinger gently tapped against his chest, "Out with it. What is it?"

He remained silent for a few more moments, not looking at her.

"Richard."

He felt her hand on his face; she was reaching up to gently caress his cheek, watching him patiently and with concern; her eyes huge and dark against the lightness of her loose hair.

"Tell me." She plant a small soft kiss on his jaw, and he exhaled heavily.

"There are a lot of... men in Paris," he finished darkly, still not wanting to look at her.

"And?"

"A lot of younger, more charming, better-looking, cleverer men than me. Who will be all to willing to ease the loneliness of beautiful woman like you."

"I doubt it," she remarked lightly, "And anyway, who says I want anyone who's younger, or better-looking or any of the rest of it?" she demanded of him.

He looked down at her fondly.

"Are you human or are you an angel?" he asked her.

She did not laugh this time.

"I'm serious, Richard," in fact, she looked almost hurt, "Do you really think that I'm just waiting to go away for the first opportunity to be unfaithful to you?"

"No," he told her firmly, "You know I think so much better of you than that. But I also know that I have very little right to lay any claim to your faithfulness."

"Apart from the fact that I love you," she told him, "Richard, to me, and I'm quite frankly surprised that you'd think anything else, once I've said that, I'm yours. Entirely. And it going to take more than a war to change that. Now, is that what you needed to hear from me to stop all of this silly nonsense?"

He nodded slowly.

"I'm so sorry, Isobel," he told her, kissing her forehead and nuzzling her skin, "I should know better than to doubt you."

"It's alright," she replied, her hand relaxing back onto his chest as her body aligned itself once more with his, "I forgive you."

"I just don't want you to go," he confessed, "That's all there is to it. So I keep inventing reasons for you to stay. Is that so wrong of me?"

"No," she stroked her hand soothingly back and forwards on his chest, and she spoke quietly, "To tell you the truth, I don't want to go either."

"Then, don't."

He felt her smile sadly against his neck.

"We both know it's too late for that now. Everything's arranged: the tickets; the rooms. They're expecting me there."

There was nothing he could do but admit defeat.

"I know, I know," he whispered gravely, shifting down in the bed to be able to kiss her neck.

"Oh, Richard."

He heard a sob in her voice. He hadn't realised that she was crying. He drew her more tightly into his arms, pressing his face softly against hers to nuzzle her skin and give her some comfort. His eyes closed against the wave of emotions that threatened to engulf him too as tears fell from her eyes onto his cheeks. She was shaking slightly against his chest.

"Oh, my love," he whispered to her.

"I've been such a fool, Richard. Such a damn silly fool. I'm not brave at all, I'm ridiculous, and a coward. You're right, it's not fair to you that I'm doing this, it's not fair at all. I wouldn't even be going if I hadn't been trying to get back at Cora."

"It's alright," he told her quietly, "You're not a fool, and you're certainly not a coward.

He was holding her so tightly that he could no longer feel where her body ended and his own began. There seemed to be little that he could say, however, to stop her hollow sobs, so he resolved to just hold her, to let her cry herself out until she felt better. Eventually, she fell silent and the stillness of the room resumed again. He leant forward and kissed her lips, hoping that it would soothe her.

"I love you so much," he told her, "And nothing will change that. Whatever happens, you have that at least."

"I know," she replied, "And that's all I really need in the end. Thank you, Richard," she kissed him back, wrapping her arms tentatively around his neck, drawing him to her and shifting her body to press against his, "I love you too."

His hand moved to rest on her lower back. She sighed into their kiss as she opened her mouth to let his tongue explore her.

"How much time do we have?" she asked.

He turned to the clock on at his side of the bed.

"Enough," he replied, pressing his lips back to hers.

**Please review if you have the time, I really do love hearing what you think.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I don't usually write letters in fics, because they lead to that fearful thing, The First Person(!), but I've given it a go, because I think they _would _have written to each other. **

Turning on the gas light to a low burn and taking her coat off, throwing it carelessly to hang over the iron bedstead, Isobel looked down at the post in her hand that had been handed to her by the landlady on her way up. The first was a letter with only a Paris postmark, and she recognised the handwriting as that of the secretary at the Red Cross headquarters. At the moment she couldn't quite face the idea of ploughing through more wordy instructions, and she threw it wearily down to the foot of the bed.

Seeing the typically untidy handwriting on the front of the next envelope and the post mark of Ripon Sorting Office in the corner her breath caught sharply in her throat. The dear wonderful man! She hadn't really expected a letter from him so soon, but she couldn't deny that every time she returned to the building, a little knot of apprehension tied in her stomach in case one had arrived. The address she had sent had got there after all. She tore impatiently at the envelope, sinking down onto the bed with the paper in her hand, suddenly feeling wide awake. It read:

Dear Isobel,

Is it too soon to want to write to you? You have barely been gone a week, but again I find myself unable to sleep this evening, and it is all I can think about doing.

You must forgive me, it is a while since I have written to anyone for any reason other than on official business and I don't quite know where to start. It seems you were right in what you said to me once; do you remember? You asked me if I wrote all of my letters at my desk in my office, and I told you, rather begrudgingly, that I did. You said you had thought so, but you were were sad to be right in this case because you'd only ever seen me write letters regarding hospital work. You said that writing personal letters was an art form that could be attained with practice but which could also be easily lost if allowed to run dry. I dare say I found you presumptuous to say so at the time, but you were right, of course you were. There, you have that in writing now.

You must forgive me rambling like an old fool, but increasingly I am coming to feel as if that is all I have become. Work at the hospital is bothersome, copious and I need not say difficult without your able assistance. It would do her a disservice to say that Lady Grantham shows any smugness at your absence, but still I find myself rather resenting her for being here when you are not. In fact, I think she feels your loss too; we all miss you, Isobel, though I dare say- I hope, at any rate- that no one quite misses you as I do.

We said once that we would not allow there to be any secrets between us, nothing other than the most complete honesty, and I feel there is little point in concealing the fact from you that without you there even the smallest task seems more of a chore than it did before. The thought of you, of you returning to me is almost a warrant to help me endure the days of mere routine, and it is my sole thought throughout the difficult ones. There, if anyone reads your post- does this happen to Red Cross nurses, I'm not sure?- I am sure to have embarrassed you dreadfully and I daren't say any more than this, but I am not sorry about anything I have said so far. I love you Isobel, and without you here to put it into writing at the moment feels like the best thing in the world.

Reading back, it seems that I have been selfish to only talk of myself, but in fact I am desperate for information about you. How is Paris, and more importantly, how are you? Are you happy, or at least approaching it? I don't need to tell you that to think of you as unhappy is to make me desperately unhappy too. To hear that you are happy and well would be the utmost blessing.

Never forget that I love you,

Your Richard.

After reading the letter twice, as avidly as if it had been an Austen novel, its words reeling around her head, Isobel could do nothing than press the paper softly to her chest. Dear, wonderful man. She didn't think she had ever received such a letter in her entire life, she would have been sure to have kept it.

For a few moments she simply sat there, completely numb, allowing his words, his turn of phrase to wash over her, to submerge her in the world she had left and dearly missed. The letter was so very Richard; it made her miss him more than ever. It was strange to think of him at home in almost the same state as she was here, given how alien their surroundings felt from one another.

Suddenly, she rose, full of purpose, crossing the room to the writing desk in the corner where another lamp stood. Lighting that too, she hurriedly opened the drawer, taking out paper, ink and her fountain pen and lying his letter out in front of her to remind her of what he had said. Sitting herself at the desk, she was ready to write a reply as if she were full in the flow of working rather than weary after a long and busy shift at the hospital. She did not feel weary any longer.

Unscrewing the cap of her fountain pen, she began to write, deciding first to put his misapprehensions to right :

My darling Richard,

Of course no one reads my post! I don't seem able to convince you that I'm not a soldier! You needn't worry that anything you have said may cause me embarrassment: no one will ever hear of it but me, unless I go out now and proclaim it from the rooftops, which I admit I am sorely tempted to do. I have never been so happy to receive a letter in my life, and rightly too: I have never read one more wonderful. You defy my assertion that practice makes perfect.

Paris is what one would expect from Paris; of course it is wonderful, but I am kept too busy to see much of it beyond the walk to the hospital in the morning and back in the evening. If I ever complained of feeling no use then that has been sharply put to right. The problem now is rather feeling too much in demand. That is not to say the work is difficult, well, it is, the hours are long and the patients only common factor is that they're all in a very bad way, but it's not too much for me, I can manage it. I am exhausted on an evening, but I can manage it and I feel useful. And that is, after all, what I wanted in the first place. I am not unhappy, at any rate, I promise you.

Of course, I do get time off, usually a Sunday when everywhere is shut except the churches but there are plenty and I go to different ones and have a look at them. It is often on Sundays when I wish I had you here with me, and we could look at them together. I miss you whenever my mind has a moment to wander away from the patients, but it is on Sundays that I feel it most keenly. I miss working with you because you know how to handle me better than anyone does here (some of the younger girls find me a bit of tyrant, I think. I haven't a clue what gave them such an idea.)

I miss you in the evenings most of all, when I'm left alone. I miss your arms around me, and the feeling and the sound of you asleep beside me; the bed, though it's tiny, feels far too wide and barren without you in it. I don't think I've ever said this to you before, but I feel so safe with you there next to me. I miss- I might as well say it- I miss you as my lover, because I'd be foolish not to. I miss the way you make love to me. It feels oddly daring to put that in writing, but if it will convince you that no one reads my post, it is worth it. And, I love you too. That is my warrant to get me through lonely nights here.

It was so good to hear about goings on at home from you, as well. Believe me, in a strange place it is nice to get news about the normal things and now that I know a little I feel myself craving more. How is dear Sybil? And the other two girls, though I don't imagine you see as much of them. Is Mrs Hughes still holding the fort as far as the staff are concerned, and is she still keeping an eye on Mr Carson for you? If anyone works themselves into the ground before either of us, it will be one of those two. It is good to hear that Cora is behaving herself. And- dare I ask this?- but how is Cousin Violet? Busy as usual, I expect.

You know as much as I do about when I will be back. How far can anyone say how the war is going? All I know for certain is that, as soon as it's over nothing will be able to keep me from you.

Once again, you know it already but I'll still say it, I love you.

Your Isobel.

**Please review if you have the time. I'd love to know what you think. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you so much for you reviews I have really enjoyed them. Amazingly, after thinking that the letters sort of worked yesterday, I've a gone a little bit letter-y again today, because I quite enjoyed writing them. **

For most of her hasty journey her head had been so full of thoughts of Matthew- worried half out of her mind about him, frightened about him, the feeling tearing through her head like a blinding, panicking headache- that she had almost forgotten who else she was returning to. Leaning her poor head against the edge of the glass, she leant back in her chair and watched out of the window, exhausted, as the countryside rolling past her at last began to look faintly like Yorkshire. How could she have forgotten Richard? Well, that wasn't quite right, she hadn't forgotten him altogether for a very long time now, but why hadn't she thought of the fact that she was going back to him at last? It would have eased her immensely, as it did now; but she could only conclude that she had been much too worried about Matthew.

Slipping her hand into her coat pocket, she took out the bundle of letters he had sent her- a lot for the relatively short amount of time she'd been away- taking her gloves off and handling them carefully between her fingers, reading over the words that she didn't need to see to be able to recall. Melodramatic, ridiculous as it sounded; when she died, the chances were that they'd cut her open and find those words scrawled on her heart in Richard's untidy writing. His second letter to her was her favourite, she thought, not that there was any one that she didn't love. She had kept them in the order he had sent them, and she found it quickly.

My darling Isobel, (a very good start, she had noted at the time)

I am very glad not to have caused you any embarrassment with my previous letter. I was so very happy to receive your reply so quickly, and so relieved to hear that you do not feel wretched in Paris. One day, my love, if you'd like to, we can go back to there together and look at all of the churches that you are visiting now. I don't want to miss another part of your life after this.

And of course, I am very jealous of the fool girls who are lucky enough to be able to work with you, and then turn their noses up at it. I find I even miss even the tyrannical side of you! If only they knew that you're the most desperately sought after nurse in the whole of Yorkshire! Yes, the younger Nurse Crawley, Sybil, who misses you the most of all after me, is behaving herself, by and large. She told me to pass on her regards to you, though how she knows I'm writing to you at all is rather beyond me. Perhaps she's as prone to enquiring into people's letter-writing habits as her cousin is.

As I said it puts me at great ease to know that it is only you reading this. Being able to talk to you privately, to confide in you openly is a wonderful thought now that I know it is absolute. Your letter was beautiful, I keep it in the breast-pocket of my jacket. Though it is still not three weeks that you've been gone, I miss you painfully. Sometimes when I'm working at the hospital I still turn around, expecting you to be standing behind me, and want to ask you something or check something with you. It's still a shock to find that you're not there. Like you, I find the evenings the greatest strain, though. My house is quiet and cold without your clattering about. I will lie awake for hours at a time trying to imagine that you're here with me- you and your faint smile when you're with me, and the way your breath whistles peacefully as you sleep, you and your beautiful body. I keep saying it, but it is the only thing I can do, you aren't here for me to make you understand in any other way: I love you, Isobel, and I miss you like a missing limb.

All my love,

Richard

It was one of his shorter letters, and she suspected that he had stopped writing abruptly, too emotional to feel able to go on. She knew that it had brought tears to her eyes now, just to read it. Reading the words again brought them back to her with a lucidity that memory alone could not supply; their meanings flashing wildly behind her eyes, the emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She sank back in her chair, titling her head back, closing her eyes tightly, and letting a deep breath rattle through her with the movement of the train. It was alright, she thought, she would see him soon. She was nearly back with him.

…**...**

Deliberately, she did not look for Matthew first. She wasn't ready to see him; she did not know what sort of state he was in- all communications about his condition had not been terribly informative- and she knew better than anyone what kind of shock bursting straight in on him could be for both of them. It was singularly unwise not to find out about his condition first, and she wanted no one other than Richard to tell her about it.

She found him talking to some of the officers at the table in the main hall. Moving to stand behind him, remembering what he had said in his letter, she stood close to him, not saying anything. Finally- unable to bear the apprehension any longer- she nodded to the officers, excusing them both, and slipping her hand to rest gently on Richard's arm. She knew that he knew her the moment that she felt him stop dead and all of the muscles in his forearm tense under her fingers. He stood stock still for a moment, not daring to turn in case it was a particularly cruel fantasy. Then, slowly, he looked up into her face.

"Dear God," he whispered softly, his eyes never leaving hers once they'd finally engaged.

"Hello, Richard," she replied in a low voice, feeling a smile glow irrepressibly on her own lips as they took each others hands, their fingers clutching desperately at each others wrists, palms caressing each other in blissful synchronisation; as they tried as much as possible to appear to be shaking hands like any acquaintances would.

"Come into my office," he told her, pressing gently at her her elbow to guide her, "There are many things we have to discuss. Excuse us, gentlemen."

Shutting the door sharply behind them both, they smiled at each other openly for the first time. The sense of utter relief was palpable. He leant back against the door, as if knocked a little by it, as she stood in the middle of the room in front of the chair. He looked at her almost warily through his happiness.

"I know you want to know how your son is," he assured her first, still smiling, with the air of something he simply had to get off his chest, "But I can't tell you how happy I am that you're back."

She felt something like a magnetic pull between them, making her want to be in his arms. Maybe that was why he was standing back against the door; to stop himself throwing his arms around her at an inappropriate time. It was typical of him, really.

"I'm happy too," she told him, watching him fondly, "And it is only because I'm here with you. I wish it could be under different circumstances, though," she added, feeling the matter had to be addressed now, "How is Matthew? I can't seem to get a straight answer out of anyone else."

He paused for a second, then made his way away from the door to the desk to stand before her. She turned with him, watching him apprehensively as he leant back against his desk.

"Richard," her voice had risen to an alarmingly high pitch, trying with remarkable effort to keep it level, his hesitation making her extremely nervous, "We said nothing but honesty, remember?"

He sighed deeply, reaching forward to take hold of her hand, gently brushing his thumb over her knuckles. This, of all things, made her realise just how terrified she was.

"It's not good, Isobel," he told her as gently as possible.

"Oh, God. How-..."

"He'll live," he told her hurriedly, as her grip on his hand tightened impossibly, "But I'm not sure that he'll ever walk again. He hasn't taken it well."

For a moment she only concentrated on the first two words.

"He'll live?" she repeated, feeling suddenly short of breath. She was almost dizzy.

"Almost certainly," Richard nodded, "But Isobel, his legs-..."

He was stopped as she flung her arms around his neck, holding tightly on to him, tears spilling from her eyes, hitching back a sob. She she felt his arms wrap around her back, holding her close to him, soothing gently against her trembling body, taking a good deal of her weight and supporting her solidly.

"He'll live," she repeated hopelessly in his ear, feeling weak, limp with thankfulness. Slowly, she drew herself away from his neck to look at him, his arms still holding on to her securely, "Richard, I came all of the way here thinking it was possible that I was going to lose my Matthew, my little boy. Whatever you say to me now I can take."

He waited a second before going on. He brushed his thumb slowly across her cheek, brushing away the tracks and traces of her tears. His hand gently on her face, he pressed her head briefly towards himself, kissing her forehead and resting his lips against her skin.

"Oh, my Isobel," he whispered into her face, "My beautiful brave Isobel."

…**...**

Of course, it was understood between them that she would not want to be alone that night. There was a silent acknowledgement that this would be a night when he made an effort to go home from the hospital, and that he would find her waiting for him there.

She was on the settee downstairs, her hands folded neatly in her lap, apparently just thinking, or too tired to do anything but sit there. She turned her head as she heard him open the door, smiling at the sight of him. It was late enough to be getting dark, but as she stood he was able to see in the low light of the fire that she had already put her nightdress on. Taking hold of her hand, drawing her to him he kissed her once on the lips, leading her up the stairs to his room, well, it was their room, really, now.

As she followed him up the stairs he could tell she was exhausted, she walked almost like a sleepy little girl. He would only hold her tonight. He would only hold her and make her feel safe, and revel in being close to her once again. He was so worn out at the moment that that was all he needed too.

As soon as they were in the room, she got into bed on her usual side; assuming her usual position with consummate naturalness, almost as if she'd never been away. Simply removing his clothes down to his shorts, he got in behind her, cocooning them both away in the sheets, he pulled her body close to his, so that her back rested against his chest. He inhaled the familiar smell of her hair, holding her softly by the elbows, and knew as he feel asleep there with her, than he loved her more than he could trust or bring himself to say.

They woke within minutes of each other, her first, turning in his arms to watch his face as he stirred awake. He saw her, the moonlight from the rippling against her plaited hair. Slowly, reaching out, undoing the tie in her hair, brushing his fingers carefully through its silken length, unwinding it to fall over her shoulders; feeling so very close to her. She watched him all the while through wide eyes, barely blinking. Kissing her lips once, he lay back to look at her in the unearthly light of the night.

Then she spoke.

"Come on. I want you."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Happiness; because it has been a long week and because I had to sort of abandon the story for the duration. Thank you for all of your reviews.**

It was still dark, she suspected that it was very early morning, but the moonlight that came through the bare glass pane fell at and angle across the bed, and she could see his face clearly. For a few seconds, he lay exactly where he was, quite still, continuing to look at her. It would have seemed from his actions as if he hadn't heard her at all, but the look in his eyes as he watched her intently told her quite the opposite. His hand reached out to her, brushing along the side of her face, their heads still both resting levelly on their pillows, and never breaking eye contact, simply touched her. He kissed her, leaning forwards, drawing their bodies part of the way back together so that they touched lightly. He kissed her so gently, tenderly, reverently that it took her breath away with a sigh. The way he kissed her in those first few seconds, while neither vigorous nor especially provocative, were like no other kisses she had felt before, because the moments before her arousal engulfed her entirely and she pressed closer to deepen the kiss, told her plaintively of the passion with which he cared for her. They reminded her that she was his friend as well as his lover, and in those moments that was so very important to her. Those moments told her that she was truly in love with him, as opposed to only lust. Then, she wrapped her arms around his neck, parting her lips against his and the beautiful moment was broken; to be replaced by something that was no less beautiful.

His hands wandered to her sides, resting there softly, before flitting between their bodies to touch her breasts alternately, pushing his thumb firmly across her nipples, making her groan aloud. By God, she had missed him. Long abstinence made the feelings he evoked in her all the more likely to overwhelm her. Matching her reactions, he continued to touch her, until, breathless, she bent her head forward to rest her forehead against his chin. He planted an almost chaste kiss in her hairline. Her hand rested against his chest, and as she recovered herself a little she brushed her hand back and forth, caressing him gently. As always, their legs seemed to have become entwined and it drew their bodies closer together. Finally, she felt able to look into his face.

"I've missed you so much, Richard," she confessed quietly. After a moment's pause, his hand slipped down to rest on her hip, causing her breath to hitch a little in anticipation.

"I've missed you too, Isobel," he replied, in barely more than a whisper, or a low growl, "Ever so much. Especially like this."

The hungry look in his eye as he spoke made it absolutely clear what he meant by that. It almost made her groan aloud again just to hear him say it. Reaching out, she made to slip her fingers under the waistband of his shorts, but he stopped her.

"Richa-..." she was about to protest, but he stopped that too, taking advantage of her off-guard indignation to press his lips against hers and firmly stop her speech. All arguments were rendered quite hopeless by that kiss.

"You first," he informed her, "I want to show you how much I've missed you."

His voice, and what he said, caused her to shudder blissfully against his body as she felt his hand trail slowly away from her hip, to rest on the inside of her thighs. It stayed perfectly still, tremulously close to her excitement as he kissed along her jaw with deliberate restraint, before reaching her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth as he moved his fingers to move slowly back and forward between her folds. The slowness with which he moved only intensified her arousal, heightening it to fever pitch, so that when he finally sank two fingers inside of her, it was all she could do not to cry out and just let of herself go. He must have felt her her difficulty, because as he moved his fingers back into her, he pushed with his thumb against her nub. Clamping down on her lip, she moved her hips back and forwards frantically. He slowed his movements a little, but she continued to move her hips in desperation.

"Richard, please don't tease me," she told him, "I need you, I need to-...Oh."

She was silenced utterly by what he did next; withdrawing his fingers from her, he pressed her nub between his thumb and fingers, massaging her firmly, giving her such blissful pressure and motion that it made her head spin. Her eyes closed, it took her by surprise when she felt his lips on her as well, kissing her, lapping at her wetness with his tongue as his hand moved continuously. She couldn't take it; throwing her head back, her hand on the back of his, holding him to her, she cried out as she came, her hips rocking vigorously. Oh, she had missed him.

When she finally returned to her senses, she found she was wrapped around her lower back, his head resting on her hip. Her hand slipped back into his hair, her thumb brushing softly against his temples, as he turned his head and planted a single kiss against the bone of her hip.

"You're so beautiful," he told her, "You're always beautiful, but like that... I don't know if I've ever told you how beautiful you are when you're like that. Especially when you let go. It's the one thought that really kept me going when you were away, but somehow it seems as if I'd forgotten what it was really like. You're like a goddess when you're like that, Isobel."

She smiled down at him. She was too much in love with him, and too grateful to call him a flatterer.

Almost, cautiously me moved back up the bed to lie beside her properly, pulling her into his arms and holding her against his chest.

"Thank you, Richard."

He smiled against his lips as he kissed her again. When they broke apart they were both breathless, and she had the feeling that it wouldn't be long until he made her look like a goddess again.

**Please review if you have the time. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Set straight after the end of episode 6.**

He had come back down to his office after assembling in the main hall to listen to the chimes at eleven o'clock. He had been sad at the time to have had to file out quietly with the other officers, and not leave with Isobel, but he knew that they still had to be discreet and somehow he thought that holding her, kissing her there and then, driving away all the sadness the reflection had left them with probably couldn't be called discreet in any way. Given all of this, he was rather surprised, when he opened the door of his office- well, really it was _their _office now, just as his bed had become theirs bed too- and found her rifling hastily through the drawers of her desk, her stance and movements rather distressed.

Closing the door, he slipped up behind her quietly, wrapping his arms around her and planting a single kiss on her neck. For a second, she acquiesced and relaxed into his hold, their heads resting tenderly against each other, but soon afterwards he felt her nudge him gently away and continue to search through the desk. He could barely hold back an exasperated sigh, as he walked round to sink into the chair that she had moved to stand alongside the desk as she continued to apparently empty it of its entire contents.

"What are you looking for, Isobel?"

"My references from the Red Cross in Paris," she told him without looking up, her brow furrowed as she started on another drawer, "I thought I'd better have them just in case, for when I start working for the refugee council. I know they asked for me personally, but it doesn't hurt to have references anyway just to be absolutely sure."

"You're going through with that, then?" he asked, "The refugee work?"

She looked up now, at the tone of his voice, from where she bent down over the desk.

"You say that as if you're surprised."

"I am," he admitted, "I didn't think you'd actually get around to it. I thought you were just indulging Lady Grantham by saying that you would."

"Which Lady Grantham?" she asked wryly, kneeling uncomfortably down on the floor and returning to her search, "The elder or the younger? Don't answer that, actually. No, I am going. Why do you think the convalescent home is going to be closed? I asked Cora to keep it open without me, but she said she'd decided against it. To tell you the truth, I think she was just waiting for the first opportunity to do so. But anyway, I'm really on to these poor refugees now. They need my help most, and Cousin Violet has made me realise that."

He brushed his hand firmly across his forehead.

"Don't you realise, Isobel, that she's just trying to get rid of you for Lady Cora's benefit so that they can all have their precious house back?"

"Oh, nonsense," she told him dismissively, continuing her search.

"Isobel," he spoke with such firmness that she had to listen to him, "Think about what you've just said to me."

She was quiet for a long moment.

"Well," she continued with less confidence now, "Even if that is what they're up to, it doesn't change the fact that these refugees need me. And so they shall have me. Ah, here it is."

He frowned a little as she inspected the sheets of paper with her references on.

"Anyway," she told him after a moment, smiling at him for the first time,"You've got nothing to worry about, I won't be going anywhere this time. Just working when you'll be at the hospital anyway, and then we can have our evenings together without having been treading on each other's toes all day. As far as I can tell, it's a perfect arrangement."

"So," he began cautiously, almost casually, very aware that it was essential for him to say this in the right way, "You wouldn't have ever considered, sort of... taking things a bit more easily now that the war is over?"

Her eyes snapped up from the paper.

"Richard, what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that you might find it more... beneficial to stop working yourself half to death for other people. You've done that for most of your life, and I think it's about time that you gave it up before it starts to do you more harm than good," he finished rather weakly, aware of the look she was giving him.

She was ominously quiet for a few moments.

"Firstly," she began, "I resent the implication that I am too old to do anything worthwhile. We both know that's absolute cobblers; I'll retire when I'm good and ready and not a day before. Secondly, how beneficial do you think I'd find it to be loitering around the house all day, waiting for you to come home so I can have your supper on the table?"

"I didn't mean that," he told her hurriedly, "Of course, I'd never suggest that you do that. I was rather thinking that I might start to take on less responsibility at the hospital myself, start delegating some of it, all of it eventually, to the more junior staff."

"You'd be just as bad at doing nothing all day as I would," she told him, no longer really listening, having returned to read the piece of paper, "Without something to occupy us we'd both be dead within half a year."

"But we would have-..." he suddenly realised that she wasn't understanding him at all because she was only half-listening. Standing up, he took the piece of paper from her hands, ignoring her protestations, holding her hands securely in his, "Isobel, I'm not suggesting we spend the rest of our lives alone and doing nothing. In fact, I'm suggesting the exact opposite: that we spend spend them together. That we get married, and live together, and spend the rest of our days together. What do you think?"

He saw uncertainty in her eyes, and he knew then that it was no good.

"Richard-..." she began, thoroughly shocked at the suddenness of it all, "We've never even discussed that we might..."

"Did you not think that was where we were going to end up?" he asked her in genuine puzzlement.

"Well, no, as a matter of fact I didn't," though she still held his hands tightly, it did nothing to reassure him, "I suppose I always thought we'd just go on as we are. I thought we were both happy like this. You are, aren't you?" she asked.

"Of course I am," he assured her, "Isobel, I'm happier with you than I've ever been. It's not that I'm unhappy as we are at all, I just wondered if we mightn't be happier if we were..."

"What?" she asked, her eyes wide, weighing him up, "Respectable? Are you ashamed of us, Richard?"

"No!" he told her, "I don't give a damn who knows about us or not. Let them think what they think! I just thought that we might be happier if we spent out days together instead of apart. Especially after your time in Paris."

She was watching him with tenderness, he feigned to say pity, in her eyes.

"You see, Richard, I'm not sure that we would. I'm sorry, but I really don't think we'd be very good like that. I wish I did, but my gut feeling is that we wouldn't; we'd be hopeless. Heavens, I even left you once in order to feel useful!" she exclaimed, "Not that I ever would again, but just think about it. We both need something to do, and I know I'm not ready to give that up yet. So why not go on as we are? We can be together, and both do some good at the same time."

He was quiet, there was nothing he could say to that.

"Oh, Richard!" she exclaimed, dropping his hands and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, surprising him into holding her out of instinct, "Don't be angry with me, and don't be hurt. I love you with all my heart, but I can't marry you now. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it, especially when Matthew's in the state he is," she added.

"I thought you said he was in higher spirits when you spoke to him earlier?" he questioned, almost distracted for a moment in his capacity as a doctor.

"He comes and goes," she told him, "But most of the time he's still pretty bleak. And who can blame him? You know," she confessed, "When I said that him being alive was enough I meant it. But I'm not sure that I was really seeing it from his point of view. I know he certainly doesn't feel like that, now."

He sighed, his hand reached to the back of her head and holding it against his shoulder, hugging her body tightly to his in consolation, forgetting almost entirely about her rejection.

"There's still hope," he told her softly.

"Yes," she agreed, "In me there is. But I'm not sure there's any left in him. Don't you see, Richard, I couldn't... I couldn't. Not while he's... " her voice rose distinctly higher and he had to shush her, stroking her hair again.

"Yes, I see," he told her, "I understand," he held her quietly for a moment, "You know, I sometimes wish Matthew was my son too. Selfishly, I know. But then we could be a proper family, and I know that would make you happy."

"It would," she admitted, "I don't think it's selfish at all," she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling benignly, "I think that's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me."

He kissed her hair, smiling down at her, her hand resting on his chest, brushing softly against the buttons on his uniform jacket. She was silent for a few moments, then spoke.

"You know, I don't for a second regret a moment of my marriage to Reginald. But at the same time I wish I'd met you sooner. I'd have very much liked to have had your child, Richard."

He closed his eyes for a second, stroking her lower back.

"I know, I know."

They did not speak for a while, just stood there, holding each other, letting everything- the end of the war, a proposal of marriage, heart-rending revelations- just wash over them.

"You know I'd marry you in a moment if we couldn't be together like this without it," she told him, "A piece of paper can't give us any more than we have already."

"I know," he repeated, "And the moment you feel ready to take up the offer..."

"Yes," she told him, smiling warmly up at him, "I know."

He kissed her hair again and then kissed her quickly on the lips.

"What say we go for a drink together?" he asked, "I know some were thinking of heading down to the Grantham Arms for a small celebration."

"And parade me around like a respectable woman?" she asked, the hint of a spark in her eye, "Yes, I don't see why not. It sounds rather fun. I think I could do with a drink."

"I don't care if you're respectable," he told her, almost entirely meaning it, though a little conscious of how quickly his good intentions had dissolved before his eyes, "You're mine, that's all that matters. I'll fetch your coat for you."

"No, no, it's alright, I'll get it myself," she told him, "But could you bring my references for me? I don't want to lose them again."

As she left the room to find her coat and hat, he felt himself watching after her in bemusement and slight disbelief, mingled with his usual awe.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Set during episode 7.**

Isobel waited hovering behind the sitting room door and holding her breath for dear life, clutching the rug from the back of the settee up to her bosom, trying to cover the rest of her naked body until she heard the front door closing and Richard's footsteps coming back along the hall. Only then did she dare to exhale, and at the same time Richard's face appeared around the door, grinning at the sight of her in her ridiculous state.

"That was a near thing," he remarked, smirking at the look of lingering panic on her face.

"You can say that again," she replied, letting the rug slip a little as he reached out to take her back into his arms, "Who on earth was it?"

It was exceedingly unfortunate that there had been a knock on the door just the moment that they had fixed on spend the entire night curled up in each other's bodies, lying in front of the fire in the sitting room. Well, a little while after they'd actually decided to. To be absolutely precise, they heard the knock at the exact moment that her corset and shift had hit the floor.

"It was Branson, down from the main house," he told her, his hands running over her back and resting softly on her shoulders blades, holding her gently against him "He says I'm to go up there at once."

Looking appalled, Isobel muttered something mildly obscene under her breath, and he laughed against her shoulder, kissing it.

"That's not all," he continued, "He said that you were to come too."

"What?" Isobel was shaken to within an inch of her wits by the idea, "He _knew_ I was here? How? I even hid behind the door!" 

"No," he told her, "He said he was going to Crawley House to fetch you and then he'd be back to collect me. He said he was sorry that he'd disturbed me, he thought it would have been too early for me to be turning in for a night. The boy's still fairly naïve," he added, looking half-wistfully, half-admiringly at her exposed breasts.

Isobel, however, could not quite share in his wry ruefulness. Moreover she was, again, rather panicked.

"But I'm here, Richard!" she pointed out, "I'm not at Crawley House, and Branson will find out as much when he gets there!"

He stared at her.

"That's it, then," he replied, an air of capitulation about him, "The game's up. Everyone will know."

"I hope to God that Molesley and Matthew can come up with something discreet," she muttered distractedly, "And plausible. It must be plausible. Oh, we're done for! Matthew can't lie to save his life. He was always a terrible liar as a child, I could spot a fib a mile away... Wait!" she exclaimed, her grip suddenly tightening on his arm, "Matthew's not at home either! He's at the main house for dinner. What if it's him they want you to go and see? What if something's happened, and that's why they want me there too? Oh, Richard, quickly, put your clothes on properly and let's go."

He acquiesced, knowing how important it was to her. All that remained for him to do was to smarten up his shirt and put his waistcoat, collar and tie on while Isobel was left to hurriedly fasten her corset, put on her dress and smarten her hair; all the while desperately trying to remove all evidence of her having been on the verge of romantic tryst.

"You look fine," he told her softly as she busied herself in front of the mirror, trying to make her hair lie flat, "No could ever tell by the sight of you. Except me, that is."

Giving up, she turned to him, smiling at him in a vaguely frightened way.

"He will be alright," he tried to reassure her, reaching out and taking her by the hand, "Everything will be fine. And I'll be here."

She did not look very convinced by his assertions, though she could not help but be heartened by this last.

"What will we tell Branson?" she asked quietly.

"That you had gone out for an evening stroll," he replied, "I imagine that will conform with Molesley's usual explanation for your abnormal behaviour, and that I saw you passing and invited you to wait here with me. Everything will be alright, it will all be fine," he repeated, "No one will know."

Again, she did not look very sure.

"And if they do," he added, kissing her hand, "If one of them works it out, I'll marry you tomorrow. Either way, when it's all over- whatever it is- and we're finished up there, we'll come back here and have our night together. Whatever you need."

In spite of her worry, she smiled at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Richard." 

"Not at all, my love. Let's go and wait for Branson outside."

…**...**

She kept her word; she came back after dinner. It was very late. He heard her let herself in via the front door. While he had feared that she would not come, he almost feared the...discussion they must have now more frightening. He did not rise to go and greet her. The way she had not looked at him once he'd revealed the truth spoke volumes. He stayed sitting on the settee, staring into the weak fire even as he heard the door of the sitting room open softly too, and he knew she must be there with him.

He could tell without looking that the initial euphoric happiness of relief had worn away. That was it then: she would want to know why he hadn't told her. And he had to admit now that his reason seemed pretty feeble. She did not speak for a few moments. The silence was awful. He wanted to turn around and look at her, but still he did not dare to. In the end, she spoke first.

"Why did you lie, Richard?"

For the most part her voice was soft, but failed to disguise the hurt and the bitterness underneath. Even as he did it, he hardly dared to: he turned to look at her. She was standing there- still wearing her coat- rather helplessly.

"I didn't lie," he told her, willing her to understand him.

"But you didn't tell me the truth," she told him, "You didn't tell me that there was a chance that my son might walk again. Why, Richard?" she demanded, "I understand why you though it best not to tell him, but me? After everything we said. Why didn't you tell me?"

Her voice was dangerously close to breaking, he could hear it creeping closer and closer to the edge. He stood up cautiously, moving around the settee to step closer to her. She did not actually take a step back, but she shifted noticeably away from him. And still she waited for him to answer.

"It's like I said before. I didn't want anyone, you especially, to have any false hope."

"But I already did hope," she reminded him, "And you knew, because I told you everything I that thought or felt during that horrible horrible time. I trusted you totally." 

"But what does it matter now?" he asked, taking a bold step forwards, "Whatever I said or didn't say. Matthew can walk now, or will be able to very shortly. Everything is alright!"

This time, she did take a step back.

"What does it matter?" she repeated, genuinely shocked, "What does it matter, Richard? We promised to always tell each other the truth, to be absolutely honest with one another. And then you keep something like this from me-... I'm not sure I can even believe it. Richard," she spoke very slowly, each syllable seeming to shake her, "I _can't _believe it. I thought we meant everything we said to each other, and now I find out that for you it was mostly true, but there were exceptions. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take that. You know, when you said it earlier, I would have married you gladly, but now... after you've done this... I can't ..." she broke off helplessly.

There were tears running down her cheeks now. He knew better than to step forwards again, but his arms could not help but reach out a little to her.

"But I only did it because I love you," he told her, not attempting to disguise the pleading in his eyes, "I wanted to protect you."

"I didn't need you to protect me, Richard," she told him flatly, "Especially not like this. Comfort me, yes, but not protect me."

His hand reached out for her still further.

"Let me comfort you now, then." 

"Not tonight, Richard."

It hit him dismally. Her tone spelled out that this was the end for them. He had gone too far. He had done the unthinkable. He had broken the absolute trust that she had had in him, and only him. As far as she was concerned, he had done practically the only thing that was beyond the pale. It was over. Still, in his heart, he could not help but hope.

"Tomorrow, then?"

"I'm not sure, Richard."

She turned to go.

"I'm going to go home now," she told him.

What he wanted to say was that this, as far as he was concerned, was her home, time and experience proved that she belonged here with him. But she would want to be alone. At any rate, she wouldn't want to be with him now. He followed her out into the hall.

"Isobel," he called, not caring how desperate and hopeless he sounded, "I love you, Isobel. I always will. I can't imagine myself not loving you."

"Goodbye, Richard." 

The door shut with an awfully brisk and final click.

**But it's not the end. Please review if you have the time. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you for your reviews! There was going to be some entirely angsty chapters in between these two, but then I thought "Oh to hell with narrative structure! There is enough of angst in the real world!" So I stuck little bits of it in this chapter and mitigated it a bit. Set in episode 8 immediately after Lavinia's death. Dedicated to Batwings in honour of her birthday. **

He stops instantly in the middle of the corridor when he hears her, in spite of himself, but the instinct within him is irrepressible. The sound of her crying- he knows without even having to think about it that it's her- comes clearly through the wall: she is obviously oblivious to the fact that she can be heard. Isobel wouldn't cry like that if she thought she could be heard. It makes his throat constrict. The room is the one that was made up for Mr Swire's arrival for the wedding that will not happen now.

He has already hesitated outside of the door for too long to leave. He can't leave her knowing that she's crying like this. In spite of everything that's happened- or not happened- between them recently; all the bitterness, the resentment, the anger, the awful, awful silences, the irritation with her as recently as when she offered to come and see to Carson with him, the ineffable hurt of having to sleep with her side of the bed conspicuously empty; he does not remember any of it now, it doesn't cross his mind for a second. All he can think of is Isobel, his Isobel- yes, suddenly she is _his _again- on the other side of the door, crying alone, sobbing into the lonely night. And he cannot bear it.

He taps quietly but firmly on the door, but does not wait for a reply before opening it and entering quickly, closing the door behind him.

She stares at his, her sobs faltering instantly, as he enters, but otherwise does not betray what she feels at seeing him in the slightest. A few seconds pass when they only look at each other, not doing anything else; him hovering by the closed door and her sitting on the side of the bed- the sheets lain over the mattress but the corners untucked and the covers still folded neatly in a pile across the foot of the bed. The she bows her head, and continues to cry silently, her face the picture of the utmost grief.

"Oh, Isobel."

It is more than he can stand and, without thinking about it, he crosses swiftly to the bed, sitting down beside her so that their knees touch, wrapping his arms around her whole body and holding her, her arms tucked softly against his chest. She has noticeably lost weight and he can feel her shoulder blades quite prominently, jutting out over the top of her corset, even through her blouse. It is more than he can stand to think that sensible, level-headed, _his_ Isobel has not been looking after herself properly.

He kisses her face; her cheeks where the dampness of her tears lies, her forehead, the side of her face so that his nose nuzzles against her eardrum. He kisses her softly; only wanting to give her comfort and asking for nothing in return. All the time avoiding her lips. It is her who finally seeks out his lips.

…**...**

She hardly dares to believe that this is happening as he responds to her kiss and his tongue slips carefully into her mouth as she parts her lips under his. Second chances like this don't happen in the real world. She thought she'd lost him. She thought she'd been foolish enough to let him go. For a moment she remembers herself crying, the night after that awful lunch with Major Bryant's mother, howling into her pillow because she realised she herself could not confront her own grief: she had lost the best lover she had had in her life and she couldn't confront it. Since then, all she'd wanted had been him, only her courage had failed her and she hadn't been brave enough to ask for him back.

But he's back now, and somehow, still wrapped in each other's arms, they're lying down together; bodies entwined and kissing, kissing passionately. She doesn't want to think of anything except him: she's gone for too long without him, and the reality of everything else is quite frankly too awful to contemplate yet. And now he's lying on top of her, and her blouse is unbuttoned, his lips leaving her to latch onto her earlobe in a way she's always found irresistible. Her hips roll up towards his in blissful contact.

She wants him here and now, she realises as his shirt comes off as well. At the moment she doesn't care if this is only a mistake to him, and that he won't speak to her again in the morning. What she wants is him back inside her, so that she can feel complete again, even if only for the last time. She loves him still, in spite of everything. She doesn't care about what he did, that doesn't seem to matter now in the wake of everything that has happened now. She was a fool; she knew he did what he did for love of her and she should have realised that at least she had him, and that was all that mattered. That was all that did matter.

…**...**

He wants to take his time with her, to make their reunion as long and as pleasurable for both of them as possible, but almost before he's realised it, her corset has come away in his hand, and he's thrown it onto the floor and taken her breasts full in his palms instead. By some hasty, haphazard magic, they are naked together once more, their bodies aligning blissfully, as they kiss more before he touches her briefly between the legs and thrusts into her hard and fast.

His excitement builds quickly as their bodies rock together; dangerously quickly; more quickly than hers. He slips his hand between their bodies, trying to reach and press her nub to help her along. She takes him by the hand and stops him.

"It's alright," she whispered to him, her breathing heavy and laboured, "It's alright, Richard. Let go."

He tried, tried to hold himself back, but before he could take hold of her hand she reached deftly between their bodies and cupped him. He spilled himself inside her with a long and deep groan of satisfaction. She was closer than he had realised, and the motion of his hips bucking franticly into hers only spurred her on, so that as he was slipping out of her, exhausted and sated, she was reaching the peak of her excitement. Lazily, he slipped his hand between her legs, to fondle her, pressing her nub firmly between his finger and thumb and slipping his middle finger inside of her to feel her exquisite wetness. Her hips bucking off the bed, he covered her mouth with his lips to muffle her cry as she came hard against his hand. Once more, the sight of her abandon was branded fresh across his eyes.

As she recovered, her beautiful body limp and trembling, he sat up to gather the bed covers from the foot of the bed, arranging them around her to keep her warm and then slipping under them beside her, holding her against him.

…**...**

Even after she recovered, it was a long time until either of them spoke. Then his voice issued from close beside her ear.

"I can't believe you allowed me that," he spoke quietly, in a tone of awe.

"Why not?" she asked, equally softly, "It's the least I owe you."

It was like their first time all over again: all of the anger and the grief had been worn away and now there was only the love they felt for each other, and tenderness in incredible measures. His thumb brushed along the side of her face.

"Forgive me, Isobel," he whispered.

"I already have done," she told him, "And I rather think it's me who should be asking your forgiveness this time."

"I love you," he told her, "I was angry with you for what you said to me, but no doubt about it, in the end I cannot live without you. There's nothing I wouldn't forgive you for."

"I love you so much, Richard," she told him against his cheek, kissing him, "And I've been the biggest fool in the world."

"I think we're both fools for the love of each other," he remarked quietly, shifting his head to kiss her back, kissing her in her hairline.

"Probably," she agreed.

They were quiet for a while.

"Are you alright?" he finally asked.

"Yes," she replied, "It's been a few weeks, but you didn't hurt me."

"No, I didn't mean that, though I'm glad. I meant before. The crying."

"I will be," she replied haltingly, "But that poor girl. That poor, poor girl."

"I know," he held her tightly against his chest, "And as soon as you want to talk about it, I'll here. You'll never have to do without me again, Isobel."

**Please review if you have the time.**


	12. Chapter 12

"It's quite ironic," Isobel remarked to Richard, as they rounded the stone corner at the junction of two streets, walking comfortably arm in arm, voicing something she kept noticing at the moment, "And it's also very sad. My son and I never seem to be able to properly happy at the same time. For instance, when he was engaged to Lavinia I was trying to cope without you," her thumb traced gentle circles over his knuckle through their gloves, "And now he's not been quite the same since she died; and I'm trying to pretend for his sake that now, with you, I'm not the happiest I've ever been."

There was nothing he could say to that. He smiled his thanks at her, squeezing her hand tightly in his, wanting to kiss her, but at the same time knowing that on a fairly busy street in York probably wasn't the place to do so discretely. They were holding hands, though, as their arms linked between each other, which was more than they would have dared to do in Downton, or even Ripon.

"He's not the only one," he admitted, after a few moments' thought, "I'm not sure the funeral did much good for any or us."

"No," she agreed, "I noticed that too. You in particular, my darling," she turned to him in concern, "I didn't want to say anything at the time, but I noticed that you were awfully quiet after the funeral, Richard. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done. I seem to spend most of my time trying to tell the men I love most that very thing: you and Matthew both. There was nothing any of us could have done. That's what made it so tragic."

"It wasn't exactly that," he admitted, "Though that certainly had a part to play."

They walked at a constant but leisurely pace, at the side of the street so other people could get past them with ease. She was quiet, waiting for him to go on.

"I was feeling rotten at the funeral," he told her, "You are right, I was feeling guilty, there's no denying it. And it made me feel very alone. I wanted you, Isobel. I wanted to be with you and hold your hand and hold you. But you went away with the family up to the big house. I know, I know it's not your fault and that you have to. I know that you'd have stayed with me in an instant if you could have chosen to. And that's what made it worse. I've never loved a women of a higher class than my own before. And when you have to leave with the family, it makes me feel unfit to even kiss your hand. That's why I was quiet later on."

"Richard," her thumb brushed reassuringly across the back of his whole hand, "You know there is no man on earth worthier of me than you? Simply because I don't want anyone else but you. And I don't care a jot for social class or anything of that sort."

He smiled at her.

"Yes, I do," he replied.

They walked on a little further down the street.

"Doesn't he know?" Richard asked, referring to how she'd said that she'd been 'pretending', "Matthew? Hasn't he noticed that there are some nights when you aren't at home?"

"Probably," she replied, "But to be honest, I don't think he's up to making any earth-shattering deductions at the moment. He's very introspective, to the point where I don't think it's good for him. But I have faith that when he's ready he'll come back. Anyway," she added, with a small smile, "Somehow I don't quite think that he'd think his old mother had it in her, to be having a great, torrid, gallivanting affair at her time of life."

He looked at the waves of soft, blonde-brown hair pinned at the side of her face.

"You are not old," he told her, not for the first time, "I'll never see you as old."

"Then logically you are in no position to comment on it," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Or perhaps I'm the only one who should be allowed to."

She laughed.

"I'm not sure how you reach that conclusion-..."

"But it suits you, and you might just as well go along with it?" he finished for her.

She laughed again.

"Isobel? Where _are_ we going? I've no objection to simply wandering around all day with you, but you do seem to have somewhere specific in mind."

"I'm going to buy some new clothes."

There was a pause. Confused, she turned her head to look at him.

"You needn't look like that, Richard, I'm not asking you to buy me some new clothes."

"It's not that," he told her, "In fact, if you want me to I _will _buy your new clothes for you, but-..."

"But what?"

"Do you really need any new ones?" 

Even more puzzled, she turned to look at him.

"The war's over. I can no longer use it as an excuse for having nothing better to wear than my scruffy old togs."

"Your old clothes aren't scruffy!" he insisted, "I'm serious, Isobel. It sounds ridiculous, but if we're talking about those old blouses with the flowers scattered all over them, they were the clothes you wore when I fell in love with you. It's horrendously sentimental, but I love the sight of you in them, and I'd hate it if you threw them out."

"Oh, Richard, I wasn't going to throw them out! Heavens, no! Though admittedly, I didn't quite have the same reasoning as you. I was going to save them for when I do the gardening. Yes," she smiled again at the look on his face, "I still do my own gardening, even though Molesley could probably keep the place in much better shape than I do. It's the one little domestic thing that I refused to give up on."

Of course, he already knew that. He had often seen her as he passed by, in the years before the war especially, when she'd be in the garden, a basket of rose cuttings in her hand, and wearing something old, haphazard, patchy, and generally speckled with flowers. It was difficult not to say to her now, again, that he wanted to live with her. He wanted to sit in their garden on warm evenings and watch her at the height of her beauty, in one of her old blouses that conveyed the essence of her spirit, her brow furrowed into a frown as she snipped at the stalk of a flower with the clippers. But the days were getting colder now and it was too late in the year now for roses; that gave him the time to wait that they needed before next year's would be out.

"So will these new clothes of yours be in accordance with the new fashions?" he asked curiously.

"Not entirely," she replied, "For instance, I don't think I'd quite get away with a hemline that high."

"Oh I don't know," he told her in a low voice, "You've got nice legs. And that you _can _take my word for."

"Anyway," she continued, ignoring that remark but for another raise of her eyebrows, "I don't think it could do much harm to go for something a little bit more modern. Stay in touch with the young. It wouldn't do to be caught loitering backward if Cousin Violet suddenly took it upon herself to move forwards."

"I shouldn't worry about that," he remarked, "She's been wearing the same dress more or less since 1890."

"Well, I can't say that surprises me."

He laughed quietly.

"Do you want to come into this outfitters with me?" she asked as she finally stopped outside of a small shop, painted a discrete purple, "Or would you rather go for a walk instead? It would probably be best, it's bound to be terribly dull for you."

"Yes, I think I'll come back, if that's alright. Don't be too long," he told her, leaning forward and kissing her quickly on the cheek.

…**...**

He drove the car to the end of the street and parked it around the corner so that there wouldn't be too far to carry her parcels. He tried, when he met her outside the shop door, to be gallant and take all of her parcels for her, but found that there were so many that he couldn't quite manage it.

"I got a little bit carried away," she admitted, "I didn't quite realise how much I like these new fashions until I was confronted with a shop full of them."

He smiled over his shoulder at her, and he loaded the parcels into the back seat of the car, turning to take the box she was carrying out of her arms.

"I can't wait to see you wearing them," he told her, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek again.

Moving away, he could see the mixture in her eyes of warning him of the need for caution and glinting happiness. It made her utterly beautiful and he leant forward again to kiss her on the lips.

"Richard!" she exclaimed in her surprise, as his lips left hers, resting her hand gently against his chest.

"Sorry," he murmured, his face still close to hers.

"No, don't apologise. Never apologise. Just be careful."

"Do you want to go back to Downton now?" he asked, "Or should we stay and have something to eat first?"

"Oh, yes, let's, I'm starving now that I think about it."

Closing the door of the car, he took hold of her arm again, leading the way.

"There's a quiet little teashop not too far from here. Just along the street and across the square."

It was getting towards the evening now, with the autumn the nights were drawing in more quickly, and hints of the cold sunset light of an autumn evening flickered over the tops of the buildings. As they crossed they heard music playing in the square: a man sat winding the handle of a large musical box playing _Roses of Picardy_.

"Richard, what's the matter?" she asked, as he stopped abruptly in the middle of the square, as if hearing something unexpected.

Not answering, he took hold of her hand, leading her quickly over to the pavement where the man with the music box sat, giving him a shilling to keep playing and drawing her closely into his arm to dance. His hand rested on her waist, where she could feel its comfortable pressure even through the thick of her overcoat; the thumb of his other hand caressing back and forward along the line of her shoulder blade. She was totally perplexed by now.

"Richa-..."

"This is the song I heard when you were away that reminded me of you," he whispered in her ear as he turned her gently around, "I never missed the chance to hear it, though it made me want to cry most of the time. There was a kind of comfort in it, and _Roses of Picardy _made me think of you because you were in France."

He felt her body ease a little, as she swayed back and forth with him. The lavender smell of her hair brushed against his nose. It was wonderful, after all of the lonely times that he'd listened to this song that he should finally dance to it with her.

"I was in Paris, not Picardy, though, thank God. Quite a lot of it was destroyed in The Somme," she told him, "More foolish waste. It was so beautiful. I'd been there once before when I was younger, my aunt took me there one summer."

"We could go there together, if you like," he told her, "When the damage has been repaired. And to Paris too."

"Like you wrote we would?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Richard, I'd like that," she told him, smiling, her cheek resting against his as they continued their gentle dance, "I'd like that ever so much. We could go-... Well, we could go as a sort of-..."

"What?"

"A honeymoon."

**Please review if you have the time. **


	13. Chapter 13

"I think he knows, you know," Isobel told the lump in the bed-covers just beneath Richard's pillow, once the sounds of Molesley's hastily retreating footsteps had faded altogether.

"What makes you say that?" Richard asked as his head emerged from under the covers.

"Just a feeling I got," she replied, "From the look of utter mortification on his face. And given the fact that I'm obviously not wearing anything other than this," she indicated to the thin blue bed sheet that she had haphazardly wrapped around herself at the sound of approaching footsteps- at the same moment as Richard had flung himself hastily under the covers-, "In fact, I'd really be more worried for his sake if he hadn't worked out that something was afoot."

"You sound very relaxed about that," he remarked, watching her admiringly as she sat half-propped up in bed, the sheets draped lazily over the top of her bosom, her hair lying down over her shoulders as she sorted through the post that Molesley had just brought up.

"Well, that's as may be," she told him, "What I'm trying to say is that I don't think there's very much point in you having to suffocate yourself every time he comes in."

"Every time?" Richard questioned, "Does Molesley come into your bedroom every morning?"

She smiled down at him fondly, detecting the considerable hint of jealousy in his voice.

"No, of course not," she told him, "Don't be ridiculous. He only came up to bring me the post because he was worried that I had slept in so spectacularly. And there, I'm afraid, he does have a point."

"Why? What time is it?"

"Nearly ten o'clock."

"It was worth every minute of it," he told her lazily, slipping his hand out from beneath the bed-covers to brush languidly up and down the outside of her thigh through the thin sheet, "Besides, I'm not going to the hospital today. Or ever again if we can spend every morning like this."

She smiled down at him again, as he nudged closer to her, until he rested his head contentedly in the centre of her lap and wrapped his arms right around the top of her thighs, his palms caressing the lower part of her hips and the sides of her bottom. Still holding a letter in one hand, Isobel dropped the other arm to rest softly in his hair, stroking softly back and forward around the top of his head and along the bones at the back of his ears.

"This one's from Cora," she told him, talking about the note she had in her hand, "An invitation, to the servants' ball a few days after New Year's Day. '_Mrs I. Crawley and guest'_."

"I'm surprised they're having that this year," he remarked.

The sound of his soft voice reverberated delightfully against her leg.

"So am I," she agreed, "What with Bates' trial and one thing and another."

She could not help sounding sad, knowing that the "one thing and another" still encompassed her poor son, and the state he was in following Lavinia's death. Of course, she knew it was not something to be got over quickly, but she had rather hoped there would have been a few more positive signs by now. It was as if Richard could tell she wanted to be distracted.

"Do they always invite you?" he asked her.

"Yes," she replied, "But not usually '_with guest'- _I must be more important this year. I went the first year they invited me, but I've never really bothered since."

"I would have thought '_with guest_' meant Matthew," he remarked.

"No, he gets an invitation of his own," she told him.

They were quiet for a moment.

"But you know, there's nothing quite like a change," she remarked, almost as if thinking aloud.

"Is that your motto?" he enquired coyly, thinking of her before the war and the times he caught her at the hospital, slyly writing letters on behalf of the suffrage campaign an think no one had noticed her.

"Only change for the better, my darling," she corrected him, "You know as well as I do, that when I'm happy in a habit I couldn't be made to change it for the world."

"One of those habits being me?" he enquired, smiling, knowing the answer.

Her hand brushed a little more firmly against his hair, as her thumb caressed the outside edge of his ear.

"Something like that," she replied, smiling as well, resting her head back against the headboard, but still looking down to him, "Anyway, I think this could end up being the year that I go to the servants' ball again." There was a pause for a second. "And I'd like you to be my '_with guest_', please, Richard."

He was stunned for a second.

"Are you sure?" he asked, turning over onto his back to look up at her, "Are you sure you're ready for that?"

She burst out laughing.

"Richard, how many years has it been that you've been sharing my bed?" she enquired ironically, "I think I can safely say that I'm ready to go to a dance with you. Heavens, it was you a few weeks ago, who took me in your arms in the middle of the street in York and danced with me to the sound of a music box!"

He opened his mouth to retort, raising his head a little.

"And it was the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me." His head lolled back into her lap, her hand still soothing against his skin and his hair as wave of utter contentedness overcame them both.

"But what I mean is are you sure you're ready for everyone to know about us?" he asked after a few more moments, choosing his words more carefully, "I mean it'll be pretty clear, won't it, once we-..."

"I wasn't intending to announce to the room at large that here you are, my bold and brazen lover, the love of my life, in fact, and keeper of my heart," she told him, "People already know that we like each other and, to be honest, most of them probably guessed we were up to something- even before we were! So I don't think it'll kill anyone if we go together. Apart from perhaps you?" she asked, a hint of a test behind her question as she survey him carefully.

"No," he told her firmly, "Absolutely not. I will be proud to be able to walk into a room on your arm. I just want to make sure you will be happ-..."

"I will be proud of you to, Richard," she replied, bending forward to kiss him on the forehead, "Always. And I feel guilty enough as it is that I'm not spending Christmas or New Year's Day with you."

"Don't," he told her, "I know you can't avoid going to the big house for days like that. I completely understand."

"Thank you," she told him, "And I just keep hoping that if I go perhaps it might galvanise my son into something resembling merriment."

His hand brushed against her knee in consolation.

"He will get better," he told her softly, "I promise you, he will. But it takes time, and you have to give him it."

"I know," she replied, almost to herself, "I do know."

She knew she was looking sad again, and felt Richard's head leave her lap as he sat up in bed beside her, on of his hands scooping the sheet up her leg to expose her knee, resting his thumb softly along its curve, as his other arm reached around her back and held her close to him.

"Who did you dance with last time at this here ball?" he pretended to demand, his eyes glimmering mischievously, "I want to know which men I'm going to have to fight away from you."

She bowed her head in laughter, brushing her hand fondly against his cheek.

"Oh, Cousin Robert tried his luck, but we're both appalling dancers," she told him, grinning a little, "Even Carson was more proficient than him."

"Carson?" he questioned.

"Yes, Carson's a surprisingly good dancer," she told him.

He pouted a little and she laughed again.

"But he's nothing on you," she assured him, leaning forward and kissing him quickly, "I know, remember?"

"Did you mean it, Isobel? What you said just then?"

"Yes, I've said, that was the nicest dance I've ever-..."

"No, not that bit."

"Which bit, then?"

"The love of your life?"

She looked very carefully into his face, intensely aware of the gentle pressure of his hand on her knee.

"Yes," she whispered simply, "Yes."

His lips closed on hers, and he kissed her, both arms drawing up to her body to hold her body properly, the sheet falling away from her breasts, as they lay back down on the bed, and he made short work of entirely removing the sheet from her body.

**Please review if you have the time. I really appreciate hearing what you think.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you for your patience with my belatedness, and for sticking with me this far. **

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" he asked her, their eyes meeting in the mirror, him looking over her shoulder as he fastened the catches at the back of her dress for her; his fingers ghosting quite gracefully- and with admirable restraint- over her corset.

She smiled at him, perfectly sure of what she was going to say.

"Of course I am," she told him, turning away from the mirror to face him, taking his hand in hers- she hadn't put on her gloves yet, "I want everyone to know about us, Richard. If I'm honest, a little part of me is tired of having to hide something that in reality I'm not at all ashamed of."

It was difficult for him not to beam back at her. Still smiling, almost madly so at one another, their heads seemed to gravitate together, their foreheads resting against each other. He could smell her perfume and feel soft strands of her hair brushing against the sides of his face in the soft light of the lamp on her bedside table.

Matthew was getting ready for the servants' ball up at the big house- Isobel had said that she expected him to stay the night there afterwards- and so Richard had come round to get dressed for the dance with her, to help her and to keep her company. Except, he rather feared that at certain points he had been more of a hindrance than a help- particularly when they had found themselves with conflicting interest regarding the use of the bathroom. These, however had been swiftly resolved in a way satisfactory to both parties, but which had left them running a little bit late now.

He brushed his fingertips gently against her cheek, his other hand resting on her waist, remembering the way that- not an hour before- his other hand had held her in the same place, but from behind, as she rocked urgently against him, nearing her climax. He was so happy to be here with her; so singularly honoured, almost overcome by the fact that this was happening to them. They were going to tell the world that they loved each other- something he had been ready to declare from the rooftops since their first abandoned and passionate night back in 1917. They were both still smiling.

"What do you think people will say?" he asked her lightly, his smile stretching into a shade of a grin as he looked into her eyes.

"I don't care," she replied, then, joining him in his less serious tone, "I would feel quite guilty, though, if we actually gave Cousin Violet a heart attack."

"Yes," he replied, "I thought you'd say that. I rather had her in mind as well. Well," he added, with a little more gravity, "Her and your son."

Isobel squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"If my son wants to thrash you within an inch of your life in order to protect my honour, I will simply inform him that my honour does not need protecting. It's far too late now, it's a lost cause, because I gladly gave it up a long time ago, for you."

He thought again of her, straddling his legs in the warm bath water, smelling faintly of lemon, as moved forward and touched her, and took her from behind. He leant forward quickly and kissed her before they broke apart. She crossed to the dressing table again, putting on her string of beads that he had insisted on buying her on their trip to York; putting on some earrings too. Vaguely, it crossed his mind that there was another- very specific- piece of jewellery that he hoped he would give her very soon.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked him, heading towards the door and wrapping her silk shawl around her shoulders as she went.

"Yes," he replied, opening the door for her, "It's you who's been taking your time."

"I seem to remember that you played quite a significant part in apprehending me," she reminded him, a definite glint in her eye- though she tried to hide it.

"And I seem to remember that you had _several _objections to that," he replied smugly.

Descending the stairs, their banter broke off as they bumped into Molesley, who had apparently been just about to come up stairs to fetch them.

"Dr. Clarkson," he spoke hurriedly, looking mildly harassed, "There's been a message for you. You're needed at once at the hospital. Apparently, there's been an accident between a car and a tractor out on one of the farms."

They were both stunned into silence, both unable to comprehend for at least a few moments that this should happen now of all times.

"Thank you, Molesley," Richard finally replied, "Would you be so good as to fetch my bag and coat. They're in the cupboard under the stairs."

Molesley nodded and retreated.

Turning to face her- she stood on the step above him- he grimaced heavily. Then, wearily, he removed the white bow tie he had so carefully arranged.

"I cannot begin to say how sorry I am, Isobel," he told her.

"Don't be," she assured him quickly, "I understand entirely. How could I not?"

"This was supposed to be our night-..."

"I know, but it's alright," she bent her head to kiss his cheek, "Every night that we're together is our night. There are people who need you more than I do. Or rather," she amended herself, a small smile playing across her lips, "There are people who need your skills as a doctor more than I do. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," he told her quickly, "You've been through enough this week, what with all of the trouble at the big house and one thing and another. Go and enjoy yourself, you more than deserve it."

"I won't enjoy myself half so much without you there," she protested.

"No, but by the sound of this accident, you'll be a lot better off there than at the hospital," he told her firmly, "And I'd rather you didn't have to go through that, my darling."

"You know where I am," she told him equally firmly, and with wide-eyed sincerity, "The moment you need me, just send for me and I'll be there."

"This is why I love you, you know," he told her.

"It's why I love you too," she replied, kissing him quickly.

They broke apart when they heard a discrete cough. Molesley had returned with the bag and coat.

"Will I see you here later on?" Isobel asked him.

"If I could-..."

"Of course you could," she told him bluntly, her arms folded across her chest as she watched him put on his coat, "If I'm back here first I'll wait for you."

"Thank you," he told her, kissing her quickly again before he hurried out of the front door, held open by Molesley.

Isobel stood watching him go until he was engulfed by the encroaching darkness.

"It's odd, isn't it Molesley, that people should know to send Richard's messages here?"

There was a protracted pause. She turned to the butler.

"What is it?" she asked curiously.

"May I speak freely, Ma'am?" he asked cautiously.

"You know, Molesley, more than once over the years I've rather wished you would."

"Well, I wouldn't have said it was odd, Ma'am. Given that most of the time you do live together like man and wife."

She was quiet for a few moments, then she smiled at him to assure him that she wasn't offended.

"Molesley, I don't mind admitting to you that sometimes I find myself wishing that we weren't only _like _man and wife."

…**...**

She gave the dance a good run for its money, and at times quite enjoyed herself. But throughout the entire evening she could not quite tear her thoughts away from Richard; wondering what was happening and if he was alright. Her eyes kept flitting to the door, wondering if a messenger would be sent to fetch her, but she was not surprised when none arrived. He had told her to enjoy herself, and she knew he would never dream of disturbing her. In the end- once she had had her dance with Carson- she had felt tired and excused herself to go home. Matthew had been invited to stay the night, so had she, but the thought of Richard waiting for her meant that her answer was a polite and quick declination. She was late enough as it was, and he was bound to be tired.

The corridor was oddly quiet as she let herself in. She supposed that Molesley had gone to bed- and did not mind. The house was mostly dark, but there was a strangely bright glow issuing from under the sitting room door. Absurdly, for a moment she considered that the house was on fire; opening the door rapidly- and rashly- and peering in.

The house was not on fire, but it might as well have been. Flames roared in the grate, and candle sat lit on most of the flat surfaces- on all of the tables, on the window sill, on the mantle piece. And in the middle of the room, stood Richard in his shirt sleeves, lit by the soft glow of all the tiny fires. Her mouth fell open a little as she surveyed the scene before her, stepping into the room faltering.

"Richard, I-... You're back," she remarked, her voice full of her gladness.

"Yes," he replied, crossing the room to close the door behind her.

"This is so beautiful," she told him, "But, Richard, why-..."

He took her by the hand, led her to the middle of the room, where the light pooled the brightest. Dropped to his knees, still holding her hand. Her mouth fell open, and she felt tears threaten to well into her eyes as he simply looked up at her face.

"Will you?" he asked.

"Yes. A thousand times, yes."

Gently slipping her glove off her hand, he took a ring from his pocket and put it on her ring finger, kissing the back of her hand and then her palm. Her brushed her palm against his cheek, encouraging him to stand. As he did so, he engulfed her in his arms, joyfully resting their faces against one another.

"I was going to ask you tonight anyway," he told her, "But now especially. I never want to have to leave the hospital after a night like that without knowing I'm going home to you."

"Oh, my poor love. Was it very awful?" she asked.

"Let's not talk about it," he told her, nuzzling her face against his again before her kissing her passionately, "Let's only be happy."

"Yes," she agreed, her arms tightening across his back.

They were quiet for a few moment, only holding each other. Then they both spoke at once.

"I can't believe we're-..."

"So we're finally going to-..."

They both broke off, looked at each other and then laughed- Isobel's eyes filling with tears. Richard saw and kissed her on the forehead.

"I can't wait to call you my wife," he told her.

She half-laughed, half-sobbed.

"Oh God, Richard, I love you."

**A few more ending chapters to go. Please review if you have the time; I really appreciate hearing what you think.**


	15. Chapter 15

**This chapter is by way of an apology for Miss Puppet, whose wonderful story, _Autumn_,I have unfortunately neglected this week because of my German speaking exam. **

That night they did not make it much further than the large, soft couch in the corner of the room. A long stretch of pale yellow satin lay draped over the back on it, and when they had finished and lay naked together it covered their bodies, their arms as they held on to each other, and the tops of their bare legs. They were so happy, so happy to be together like this tonight. Even after their lovemaking, the cold touch of her new ring as she held onto his shoulder was still enough to make his skin flush with a sudden pleasant warmth. The light of the fire was burning low as they looked at each other, still short of breath, drinking in the sight of one another. Her eyes glinted and flickered with flames as he eased her down to lie beside him, the flush only just staring to recede from her neck and the top of her breasts. Really, they had been married for a long time, since that very first night; but still the fact that were going to _be _married was wonderful to them; to live like this, only like this, for the rest of their lives. They did not say a word as their heart rates returned to a normal speed; everything necessary having been spoken through their eyes, their lips, their bodies. He kissed her on the forehead again before she buried her face in his neck and they drifted off to sleep.

…**...**

Isobel got the shock of her life when Molesley announced that Matthew was here to see her, not least because she was sitting at the breakfast table in her dressing gown- something she only ever did when she was staying alone with Richard. She was very glad that she had remembered to pick up her clothes and her corset off the floor of the sitting room. Richard himself was upstairs in the bathroom, and she was glad of it for the moment: she was not ashamed of herself or them one inch, but she thought it rather better that Matthew found of they were engaged before he found them eating their breakfast together.

Matthew, however, when he walked in, seemed not to notice that she was wearing her dressing gown, and Isobel noticed that he looked somehow happier. A little more snow had fallen over night, and he looked cold from the walk down, but definitely happier.

"Good morning, mother," he positively beamed at her.

"Matthew," she kissed him on the cheek, and then he seemed to notice the fact that she was wearing her hair down, "I'm so glad to see you, but what are you doing here at this time? I was going to come up for lunch anyway."

"I had some news to tell you," he replied, taking the seat opposite her at the breakfast table and taking the cup of tea Molesley offered him.

"That's funny, because as it happens I've got something to tell you myself," she replied, smiling slightly at the coincidence, though wondering if what she was about to tell him was about to change his definition of what news was.

"Well, you must go first then," he told her graciously, "Anyway, I suspect there's a probability that mine may be somewhat more significant."

She smiled a little at his naivety in supposing as much.

"I'm going to be married," she told him simply, "I got engaged last night."

Yes, she thought, he looked startled. Unnerved, almost. There was a pause.

"So did I."

Isobel did a double take.

"What? You asked her?" she could hardly believe it, "Oh, Matthew! You asked her!"

She stood up moving quickly around the table to kiss him on the cheek again.

"It is Mary, isn't it?" she asked warily, just to make sure, "You didn't go mad and ask Edith instead, did you?" 

"No, mother, of course I didn't," he told her in exasperation in her lack of confidence in him, "It is Mary."

"Oh, good. Oh, I'm so happy for you, and I'm so proud, my darling, my darling boy," her eyes threatened to flood with tears again.

He patted her arm gently.

"May I ask who it is you are marrying?" he wondered allowed, giving her a cautious look.

It was safe to say that Isobel's definition of a coincidence had just been revolutionised. She took her handkerchief out of her dressing gown pocket and blew her nose, nodding her head.

"Richard. That's to say, Dr. Clarkson," she told him.

"Dr. Clarkson?" he repeated, taking it in, "I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised, really. In fact-..."

"In fact now you think about it, it almost stares you in the face?" she finished for him.

"Yes, that's it," he agreed, then, as if struck by a sudden thought, "Does that mean that-... That's to say-... If you don't mind me asking-... Have you-... That is, has he-...?" he flushed furiously as he stumbled over his words, trying to form the right sentence.

"Yes," she cut him off gently, "I think I catch your meaning, and if I've got it right, then, yes. I've been due a proposal since 1917."

"Goodness," Matthew almost looked impressed for a moment, "That's to say, I'm very happy for you, mother. I hope you don't mind my asking?" he added, referring to his earlier attempt at a question.

"Not at all," she replied softly, "I wish I could have let you know, but the right moment never seemed to present itself."

"And he'll..." Matthew trailed off with some uncertainty, "He will make you happy, mother, won't he?"

She smiled at his concern for her.

"Mary will make you happy, won't she?" she asked, rather rhetorically, and not for the first time.

"She already does, mother. I feel almost as if we've already been through heaven and earth together."

"I thought as much," she replied, "Then I suspect you probably know how I feel about Richard, then."

She stood up, gong back to her side of the table, knowing that now he would have no more questions about her relationship. Except one.

"Is it him?" he asked, glancing at the ceiling, where the sound of running water could be heard.

She looked up at the ceiling too, a piece of toast in her hand.

"Either that, or Molesley is cleaning his teeth in the bathtub." 

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	16. Chapter 16

Isobel was sitting on the couch with a book in her lap, half of her mind still vaguely attached to the tumult of wedding-related things whirling around her head when Molesley appeared around the door.

"There's someone to see you, Ma'am."

"Well, then, Molesley, you must show them in. Who is it?"

"Mrs Branson, Ma'am."

"Mrs-...?" abandoning her book, Isobel flew off the couch, and- Molesley dodging quickly out of her way- sprang through the door into the hall, wondering if it could be true, "Sybil!" she cried in her delight at seeing her young cousin standing there, "What on earth are you doing here?"

Sybil grinned at her.

"I could ask what on earth you are doing getting married, Cousin Isobel. And so quickly?"

"I'm consolidating my happiness," Isobel assured her, "And at my age, I really can't afford to hang around over this sort of thing. You look-..."

"Large," Sybil finished for her, raising her eyebrow and resting her hand on her stomach.

"Trust me, my girl, you've got a long way to go yet," Isobel warned her, "And I was going to say "well"! Anyway, you must come and sit down. And where is Mr Branson? He can't have let you come over on your own in your condition? Molesley, we'll have some tea, please."

"Tom is in the Grantham Arms," Sybil informed her, sitting down in the chair by the fireside, "He thought I should come and see you first, let you know we're here, and then we're going up to the house. Mama is expecting us, but I asked her not to tell you, to let it be a surprise.

"Well, I certainly am surprised. And how _are_ you here?" Isobel asked once she'd settled herself, "And don't give me some barbed comment about having got on a boat and sailed across," she told her sharply, just as Sybil opened her mouth, "I mean can you both afford it? You'll be coming over for Mary's wedding too, I presume?"

"You know me so well, Cousin Isobel," Sybil remarked- referring to the expectation of a sarcastic remark-, "Well, we were always going to use the money that Papa gave us for a trip over here, to tell you the truth, we practically set it aside for the time when Matthew and Mary finally had the sense to get married. But then Tom got a particularly lucrative writing job, and the very same evening a letter arrived from Granny saying that, and I quote, "_Cousin Isobel has been playing the Madame Bovary with Dr. Clarkson, and is having to get married_." I knew I couldn't miss your wedding, and as seem as we found out about both on the same night we took it as fate and thought that we had to come!"

"She said what?" Isobel asked, aghast for several reasons.

"I know," Sybil laughed, "It sounded rather ridiculous to me too. But is it true?" she asked, her curiosity making her look every inch as young as she was.

"For one thing," Isobel remarked, "I don't think she can ever have read _Madame Bovary_, because, it's different, on several counts-..."

"But in essence...?" Sybil amended hurriedly.

Isobel gave her a long look.

"I am not _having _to get married," she told her, finally, "No one is making me. But if what you're asking me is if we stood on ceremony and middle class morality, then, no, we didn't. I loved him, and you know that I've never really understood propriety. Or if I have, I won't be bound by it, especially not over things like this."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" Sybil told her, "Genuinely so! Oh, Cousin Isobel, I always knew that you were the romantic of the family!"

Isobel rolled her eyes a little, but smiled all the same.

"Anyway, enough about me and my misdemeanours," she told her quickly, "What about you and your baby?"

"Oh, we're alright," Sybil told her.

"Have you thought of a name yet?" Isobel asked as Molesley brought in the tea. She wondered briefly if he'd waited outside for a less controversial subject to arise before coming in.

"Well, if he's a boy, it's Patrick after Tom's father and his Cousin who was killed in the Easter Rising."

"And a girl?" Isobel asked, picking up her teacup and taking a sip.

"Mary," Sybil told her, "It's the only one that I suggested that Tom's mother looked really happy about; she's a Roman Catholic, you see. She said not to mind her, but in the end we couldn't. She's not the kind of woman whose opinion is easy to ignore."

"I must say I don't envy you in that respect," Isobel told her.

"What? Having to kowtow to your mother-in-law?"

"Well, that too. But the whole thing, really. I love Matthew dearly, he's the best thing that ever happened to me, but I wouldn't go through having a baby again for the whole world. It's a good job I'm old really," she paused for a second, "And yet..."

"What?" Sybil asked, watching curiously over her teacup.

Isobel snapped away from the silliness of the thought.

"Nothing," she smiled.

"No, go on," Sybil told her, "What were you going to say? I should like to here it, after you've put so much apprehension into me."

"I'm sorry," Isobel apologised, "I didn't mean to. I was going to say that... That I would have loved to have had Richard's child too. That's a foolish thing to say, but it's true." 

"I don't think it's foolish," Sybil told her, "Not at all." 

"It is," Isobel affirmed, "But somehow I don't seem to be able to convince myself that it's wrong of me." 

"I always knew," Sybil told her after a moment, "When I worked with you both at the hospital. I could tell that it wouldn't be long before something... and it wasn't, was it?" she asked.

"1917," Isobel replied, "Yes, Richard did tell me that he loved me for a long time before that." 

"Oh, it wasn't so much Dr. Clarkson who gave the game away." 

"What do you mean?" Isobel asked, astonished.

"You could tell by the way you looked at him that you loved him," Sybil informed her bluntly, "By the way you passed him patient files, by the way you let him wind you up so much and always forgave him."

For a few moments, Isobel could not think of anything to say.

"Don't worry," Sybil continued, "I'm not sure that anyone else would have noticed; it was only because I was with you both day in day out. And of course, I knew he loved you when you went away. Because one day he practically chased me out of the hospital in frustration; and when he wasn't cross he was quieter, much quieter. That reminds me," she bent down and fished a large cardboard file out of the bag at her feet, "I found this in a shop in Dublin. I thought Dr. Clarkson might like it."

Isobel read the letters printed on the card. It was a record of _Roses of Picardy_.

"Yes," Isobel agreed, smiling at her, "I think he'll like it too."

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	17. Chapter 17

In the end it was a small, but none too quiet affair. The ceremony took place in Downton Village Church, with the reception straight afterwards in the village hall. The band were engaged to play at the request of the bride and groom and much to the delight of their young relatives, and the younger servants from the big house, who had also been allowed to attend. There had been talk of a grand affair up at the big house; but Isobel would not hear of it.

The bride did not wear white. Choosing the material her dress, Isobel had thought about it, but then realised there really was no need to pretend; everyone knew that she had a son for heaven's sake! Anyway, she was bound to make a mess of white. Instead, she chose a pale cream, speckled all over with little blue flowers; and had it made into a dress to suit the modern fashions- with loose bodice, mid-length sleeves and calf-length hemline. It was quite a brave idea and she had heard Cousin Violet remark later on that it was just like Cousin Isobel to get married in a dress that looked like a set of curtains. But she knew it had paid off in the only way that mattered: as she had entered the church on Matthew's arm, she had seen Richard's eyes light up all the way from the other end of the aisle.

They led the first dance together, his hand resting softly at her waist, their hands clasped tightly together as the band played _Roses of Picardy_. Isobel rather suspected that Sybil had had a sly word with the conductor, and she was very grateful for it. If now she could erase all of the sad associations with this song from Richard's mind, then it was almost worth them having existed in the first place. She rested her head on his shoulder as he lead her around the dancefloor, inhaling the scent of starch from his collar mixed with the unmistakable smell of him. It was wonderful to be able to openly be together like this and not need to care about it. His cheek brushed against the softness of her hair.

"I'm so happy that I have you," he whispered so that no one else could hear above the music, "My beautiful wife."

He held her left hand, and could feel the cool of her new ring against the inside of his fingers. Her head lifted from his shoulder and she watched him as they continued to dance slowly, smiling.

"I love you so much, Richard," she replied, her thumb soothing over the back of his knuckle as she turned her face inwards to kiss him on the cheek, "I'm so glad that we've finally done this, after everything."

"Yes," he agreed, "But perhaps it took everything that's happened over the past few years to make me realise that I can't live without you."

Her hand slipped from his shoulder to the back of his head, pressing him closer to her, even as the music broke apart and the other pairs broke apart to applaud.

"Well, you don't have to now. Ever."

By the end of the occasion it was only Lady Violet left in any doubt that the bride and groom had married purely on the grounds of absolute, all-consuming love- Violet still insisted that there had been an element of "necessity" about it.

They were not leaving for their honeymoon just yet; they had decided to wait until it was warmer and go to Paris for a few weeks in the early summer, and come back in time for Matthew and Mary's wedding in the August. Richard and Isobel retired to his cottage; which from that night forward was to officially become their cottage. It had been decided by all of them that Isobel would be best moving out of Crawley House in preparation for Matthew living there with Matthew when they married later in the year; and Isobel was all to happy to comply to any solution that meant she could live alone with Richard with immediate effect.

When they reached their bedroom, she was still wearing her wedding dress. The gas lamp was turned to a low and peaceful ebb as he sat down on the bed for a moment to remove his jacket; and she stood at her dressing table, taking off her beads and her earrings.

He watched her admiringly with her back turned to him: the graceful curve of her bare neck, the glint of the light on her hair, the way the dress sat so perfectly on her shoulders. She was all the beauty he could have ever imagined or wanted as she glanced over her shoulder and smiled to find him sitting there watching her.

"Richard." 

"Isobel."

She had already taken off her shoes, and she walked gracefully towards him to stand between his knees, his head at the height of her bosom, as he nuzzled her breasts through the silk; his hands moving swiftly over the hooks at the back of the dress. He lifted his hand to caress her face as the dress fell from her shoulders. She stepped back for a second, stepping out of the dress properly and hanging it over the back of the chair.

"I'll keep this dress until the day I die," she told him, stepping back into his arms, resting her own forearms on his shoulders as he leant in to kiss the curve of her breast over the top of her corset.

"Even after what Lady Violet said?" he asked, jokingly raising an eyebrow.

She laughed; resting her face for a second against his hair and allowed him to gently tilt them until they lay beside each other on the bed.

"So you heard her too, then?" she asked him.

"Yes, I did," he replied, taking in the sight of her simply lying there beside him, their arms each outstretched to hold onto to each other, "My beautiful, curtain-wearing Madame Bovary."

She titled her head back as she laughed again.

"Oh, Richard-... Richard!" she half-moaned, half-exclaimed as he surprised her by leaning forwards to kiss the base of her neck.

In doing so, his body moved so much closer to hers, so that they lay chest to chest and he was close enough to whisper in her ear:

"Isobel. My Isobel," his hands moved to her waist and he heard her whimper as he took her earlobe briefly into his mouth before continuing, "I want to undress you until all you're wearing is my wedding ring."

"Oh, Richard," he felt her fingers fumbling hastily with his tie as he reached around her body to remove her corset.

Her skin was flushed and beautiful as she revealed it to him, allowing his hands to roam her body freely while she busied herself with removing the rest of his clothing. Finally naked together, they knelt on the bed facing each other, kissing each other senseless; when he finally whispered against her lips.

"Lie down," he commanded, "Let me touch you."

She complied willingly, though pulling him down with her to keep kissing. Lying between her legs, his hand caressing up and down the inside of her thigh, he listened contentedly to the sound of her moaning, blissfully close to his ear so that he could hear every hitch in her breathing.

"Richard-... Richard I want-..."

"What?" he asked, his fingertips pressing as lightly as possible against her excitement, giving her the barest taste of pressure, "What do you want?"

She struggled with her laboured breathing, as he pressed a little more firmly against her.

"Just ask for it, my darling, and I will give it to you," he told her quietly.

"Take me," she begged, her head thrown backwards as he started to massage gentle circles against her nub,"Oh, my love, take me now."

He surged forwards, filling her in one motion, sinking himself into her up to the hilt. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his waist and he understood that as the signal that she was ready for him hard and fast. He withdrew from her and sank back in repeatedly, over and over, until he felt her body jerk and fold beneath his, her hips vibrating as she cried his name out. He could not hold back, and let go himself, flooding her, every nerve in his body zinging with the feelings their union created. He felt his own breathing, deep and uneven as he collapsed on her body; unaware of any thought but her. The first thing he noticed as he returned to blissful, weary, exhausted consciousness was the cool of her wedding ring resting against his shoulder.

**The End. **

**Thank you! for sticking with me for so long; I really hope you have enjoyed it; I have loved writing every word of this. Please review if you have the time.**


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